FRANCES  AYMAR  MATHEWS 


THE  UNDEFILED 

A  NOVEL  OF  TO-DAY 


BY 

FRANCES  AYMAR  MATHEWS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  MY   LADY   PEGGY   GOES  TO  TOWN  "    ETC. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK  AND   LONDON 

MCMVT 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  September,  1906. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  WHOLE  HAREM i 

II.  THE  DUKE  DE  MONTRESOR  ARRIVES   ....  15 

III.  WHAT  THE  TROUBLE- WAGON  TOOK  AWAY  .     .  27 

IV.  BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 40 

V.  A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 54 

VI.  THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING    ...  67 

VII.  JUDITH'S  PAST 83 

VIII.  BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 95 

IX.  Two  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 108 

X.  CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 121 

XI.  THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 140 

XII.  IN  THE  PARK  ONE  AFTERNOON 156 

XIII.  "Bos" 166 

XIV.  THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 174 

XV.  THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 189 

XVI.  CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 200 

XVII.  THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER      .     .     .     .  218 

XVIII.  FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 228 

XIX.  TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 241 

XX.  "BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN"    ......  254 

XXI.  AT  LAST  .  268 


2137003 


THE   UNDEFILED 


THE    UNDEFILED 


THE    WHOLE    HAREM 

WHO  is  it?  Is  any  one  new  coming?  Do  tell 
me!"  Mrs.  Faxon  came  out  on  the  piazza 
of  the  Gray  Fox  Inn  at  Fairfield  as  she  spoke.  Her 
two  daughters,  Dorothy  and  Lillian,  were  already 
seated  there,  rocking  gently  back  and  forth  as  is 
the  American  custom.  One  held  a  kitten,  the  other 
a  volume  of  Herbert  Spencer.  The  Faxons  all  led 
what  they  had  been  educated  to  call  the  individual 
life. 

Ernest  Faxon,  the  son  of  the  house,  swung  remotely 
at  a  corner  of  the  porch  in  a  hammock;  he  was  so  in- 
dividual that  he  did  not  wear  ordinary  clothes,  but  dis- 
ported in  breeches,  leggings,  blouses,  sandals,  owned 
sad,  wide,  romantic -appearing  hats,  and  had  long, 
ranchman-like  hair  of  a  pale-gold  color.  He  was  an 
artist,  or  at  least  they  said  so. 

There  were  a  few  other  people  scattered  about, 
mostly  women — intent,  intelligent,  active,  forceful  per- 
sons, each  bristling  with  a  mission,  or  entirely  in  the 
grip  of  a  supposititious  talent — sometimes  for  writing 

i 


THE  UNDEFILED 

novels  or  plays  or  poems,  sometimes  for  acting  trage- 
dies, this  generally  when  a  perverse  or  unforesighted 
nature  had  doomed  them  with  incapable  features,  and 
strange,  squally  voices.  Others  were  bent  upon  psy- 
chics: one  was  a  physician;  several  were  musicians 
and  had  already  in  their  day  and  generation,  although 
quite  young,  caused  many  otherwise  virtuous  persons 
to  take  tickets  for  the  nether  regions  by  uttering 
curses  upon  the  various  noises  they  had  made  with 
their  voices  and  their  instruments. 

At  Fairfield  there  was  a  little  summer -school,  es- 
tablished by  a  very  clever  man  a  dozen  years  ago, 
mainly  in  the  line  of  supporting  himself,  wife,  and 
three  little  children,  secondarily  because  he  loved  that 
sort  of  thing  and  thought  he  could  make  it  a  go.  He 
did.  For  a  time  it  flourished  and  so  did  his  family. 
Then  the  go  accelerated  and  it  went  all  to  pieces. 
But  that  was  some  little  while  after  this  history  be- 
gins. In  Fairfield  there  was  a  lovely  library,  a  build- 
ing donated  by  a  mill-owner  of  the  township,  who  never 
entered  f  but  often  stood  outside  to  read  the  pleasant 
inscription  over  its  portal  which  informed  the  world 
of  his  beneficence.  In  this  building  the  lectures,  con- 
ferences, and  merry-makings  of  the  summer  -  school 
were  held,  with  morning,  afternoon,  and  evening  ses- 
sions, at  which,  before  constellations  of  suspected  and 
even  unsuspected  genius  in  the  auditorium,  some  really 
well  -  known  if  not  exactly  famous  men  and  women 
from  Boston,  New  York,  and  other  places,  held  forth 
on  the  platform  to  their  own  and  the  edification  of 
the  pupils  gathered  there  by  the  shrewdness  and  in- 
nate ability  of  Professor  Saunders.  He  was  a  professor 
by  courtesy,  yet,  though  quite  an  honest  man,  with 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

t 

that  singular  naivete"  not  uncommon  among  us,  he 
never  repelled  the  title  and  always  made  use  of  it  on 
his  prospectuses  and  letter-heads. 

A  little  apart  from  the  group  of  gifted  women  at 
the  north  end  of  the  piazza  sat  another  man,  of  a  dif- 
ferent type  from  Ernest  Faxon.  This  man  was  smok- 
ing— all  the  women  at  Fairfield,  being  more  or  less 
advanced,  either  smoked  themselves  or  averred  that 
they  "just  loved  the  fragrance  of  a  cigar!"  He  was 
smoking  now;  his  handsome  eyes  were  fixed  upon, 
one  might  say,  either  vacancy  or  the  deep  blue  of  the 
July  sky — just  as  one  found  one's  self  moved  to  describe 
it;  his  beautiful,  thin,  sensual  lips  were  curved  in  a 
smile,  thus  showing  his  teeth  which  were  blue-white, 
uneven,  but  very  pretty.  He  was  clean-shaven,  of 
course,  and  his  dark  hair  was  cut  moderately  close — 
only  moderately — not  neat  and  spick  about  his  large, 
ill-set  ears  at  all,  but  with  little  curls  betokening  what 
was  the  fact  of  the  matter,  that  he  thought  those 
rings  of  hair  entirely  picturesque,  that  he  took  him- 
self, even  his  hair-cut,  quite  seriously,  and  that  he  was 
a  personage  of  some  consequence  in  Fairfield  at  any 
rate. 

True.  And  he  was  a  personage  of  some  consequence 
in  town.  America  and  England  both,  with  some  cor- 
ners of  Paris,  Berlin,  and  Vienna,  knew  him  and  liked 
him  well.  He  was  Sidney  Conningsby,  the  poet,  novel- 
ist, essayist,  and  lecturer,  whose  success  in  many  Lon- 
don and  New  York  circles  will  be  easily  recalled. 

On  the  face  of  it,  as  he  half  reclined  in  the  hammock, 
with  a  magazine  or  two  near  his  listless  hands,  he  was 
as  much  of  a  poseur  as  Ernest  Faxon  in  his  hammock 
around  the  opposite  corner  of  the  porch.  The  younger 

3 


THE  UNDEFILED 

of  the  two — Faxon  was  only  twenty -three — made  a 
picture  of  himself  with  the  raw  intention  clear-cut 
and  naked  to  view;  his  purpose  to  be  different  was 
aggressively  denoted  and  blatantly  set  forth  in  every 
one  of  his  theatrical  garments,  in  each  line  of  his 
strong,  athletic,  if  somewhat  stubby  figure.  But  Con- 
ningsby's  attitudinizing  was  a  veiled  and  subtle  mat- 
ter, a  certain  air  of  indifferentism  seemed  to  envelop 
his  most  really  calculated  action  or  manner,  and  the 
peculiar,  inquiring  uplift  of  his  heavy  eyelids  abetted 
him  in  this  characterization.  Moreover,  if  he  was  a 
bit  careless  as  to  his  moods  and  behaviors  that  year, 
he  was  in  a  position  to  afford  this  social  extravagance. 
Conningsby  was  a  success,  a  celebrity,  and  he  knew  it — 
knew  it  for  its  full  and  extreme  value  and  enjoyed  it 
immensely. 

As  Mrs.  Faxon  propounded  her  question  as  to  a  pos- 
sible new  arrival  to  break  the  monotony  of  life  at  the 
Gray  Fox  Inn,  a  girl  appeared  in  the  doorway,  a  no- 
ticeable girl  with  crisp,  light  hair  done  up  in  low,  broad 
lines,  and  tied  with  those  strange,  black  ribbons  girls 
of  a  certain  calibre  affected  that  summer.  Her  face 
was  clear  and  pale  and  pretty,  her  lips  pink  and  not 
ill-shaped,  with  fairly  pretty  teeth;  her  eyes  were  fine, 
gray,  pale,  but  fiery  and  even  splendid  on  occasions 
under  dark  and  handsomely  pencilled  brows.  She 
was  tall  and  svelte  with  a  lovely  figure.  Her  sleeves 
were  rolled  up,  showing  beautiful  arms;  her  skirts  were 
short,  displaying  with  delightful  unconcern  a  pair  of 
aggressively  large  feet.  Her  shirt-waist  was  open  at 
the  throat,  but  the  lines  it  revealed  were  not  good  to 
look  at.  She  was  not  a  coquette,  evidently ;  had  she 
been,  she  would  have  sewed  a  flounce  on  her  skirt,  put 

4 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

a  black  velvet  around  her  throat,  taken  the  ribbons  off 
her  hair,  and,  last  but  not  least,  she  would  not  have 
permitted  her  pale  eyes,  with  their  latent  possibilities 
of  flame,  to  rest  as  they  did  upon  Conningsby.  Con- 
ningsby  saw  the  glance ;  he  was  quite  moderately  aware 
of  himself.  Women  liked  Conningsby ;  they  liked  the 
touch  of  his  hand  on  their  arms  to  help  them  crossing 
streets,  into  cars,  carriages,  up  hills,  over  little  brooks 
in  the  country,  up  staircases  in  theatres,  libraries,  and 
so  forth.  It  was  an  open  question  with  any  thinking 
person  who  thought  it  worth  while  to  ruminate  upon 
him  at  all,  whether  he  was  capable  of  either  inspiring 
or  experiencing  a  great  passion,  but  this  was  not  at  all 
an  open  question  with  Conningsby  himself;  in  a  way 
he  sat  up  day  and  night,  searched  every  town  that 
harbored  him  even  a  week,  and  every  drawing-room 
frequented  by  women  he  entered,  for  the  expected 
she  to  come  in  and  be  taken  possession  of.  He  claimed 
— naturally  enough  considering  his  professional  and  so- 
cial success — that  he  should  have  a  walk-over.  That 
was,  of  course,  a  foregone  conclusion;  equally  foregone 
was  the  idea  that  the  expected  woman  would  love  him 
first,  that  he  should  be,  as  it  were,  wooed.  It  is  queer 
what  notions  will  originate  in  brains  seemingly  and  ele- 
mentarily normal. 

Conningsby  in  his  hammock,  beholding  Beatrice 
Bond  in  the  doorway,  beneath  the  enticing  shadow  of 
his  drooping  eyelids,  speculated  a  little  on  her  as  the 
possible  great  passion.  It  was  an  amiable,  impartial, 
and  altogether  entertaining  action  of  the  mind.  One 
who  is  capable  of  a  great  passion  is  so  liable  to  specu- 
late on  it  up  to  a  given  point.  This  point  is  when  the 
woman  appears  on  the  scene.  At  this  crisis  specula- 

5 


THE  UNDEFILED 

tion  ceases  and  the  splendid  red  blood  that  dominates 
all  healthy,  splendid  men  rushes  to  the  forefront,  and 
he  knows.  Conningsby  didn't  know. 

"Well!"  repeated  Mrs.  Faxon.  "Does  no  one  hear 
me?  Is  any  one  new  coming?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Lillian,  glancing  up  from  Spencer. 

"Who?" 

"Another  girl,"  responded  Dorothy,  teasing  her 
kitten. 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  not  general  either,  be- 
cause the  purposeful  and  much  -  advanced  group  far 
off  at  the  south  end  lifted  their  eyes  in  active  inquiry 
to  learn  what  sort  of  creature  the  new  girl  might  turn 
out  to  be.  This  group  took  girls  seriously  as  young 
things  to  be  moulded  and  matured  into  automatic 
models,  each  with  an  object  in  life.  Oh  no,  they  didn't 
smile. 

"What's  her  name?"  asked  Ernest,  tipping  up  his 
sandalled  feet  from  the  recesses  of  his  individual-life 
hammock  and  throwing  his  sombrero  at  his  sister's 
cat,  while  Beatrice  Bond's  eyes  were  still  on  Con- 
ningsby's  face. 

"Judith." 

"Blooming  uncommon  name,"  he  returned,  almost 
turning  a  somersault  in  reaching  for  his  hat. 

"Oh,  a  horrible  name!"  exclaimed  Lillian. 

"What  is  her  last  name;  the  first  sounds  to  me 
archaic  and  frivolous,"  said  Mrs.  Faxon.  The  ma- 
tron's tone  was  a  trifle  severe,  as  if  she  trailed  afar  a 
young  person  upon  whom  she  might  be  called  to  lavish 
adverse  criticism  if  not  personal  advice. 

"Harriman,"  Miss  Lillian  said,  succinctly. 

"Judith  Harriman  coming  here!"  the  pale  girl  in  the 

6 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

doorway  said,  but  still  not  removing  her  gaze  from  the 
graceful  figure  reclining  in  the  fancily  fringed  ham- 
mock. 

"Do  you  know  her,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Faxon, 
anxiously. 

"I  do  indeed,"  Beatrice  answered,  readily. 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  son  of  the  individual-life  family. 

Both  of  his  sisters  and  his  parent  turned  eyes  of 
simple  scorn  upon  his  speech,  and  all  three  reverted 
with  quick  interest  to  the  girl  still  in  the  doorway. 
Conningsby  so  far  had  evinced  no  knowledge  of  the 
nearness  of  any  one;  he  preserved  this  attitude  still. 
It  was  a  convenient  attitude;  it  had  saved  him,  as  it 
has  many  less  pretentious  people,  from  incalculable 
boredom. 

"Well?"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Faxon,  in  a  high,  even 
querulous  tone.  She  was  annoyed  because  Beatrice 
Bond  did  not  proceed. 

"Tell  us  about  her,"  said  Dorothy. 

"I'll  tell  you  about  her,"  remarked  the  brother, 
patronizingly.  "She's  fascinating,  magnetic,  beauti- 
ful, with  studio  artistic  beauty,  glorious  coloring  and 
hair,  and  a  smile — " 

Youth,  blatant,  tremendous,  masculine  youth,  so 
sure  of  itself  and  its  own  powers,  evidently  stopped 
short  before  the  memory  of  Judith  Harriman's  smile. 

"Go  on,  dear,"  urged  his  older  sister,  obligingly,  but 
with  a  distinct  inflection  of  superiority. 

"Miss  Bond,"  replied  the  young  fellow,  "you  take 
it  up,  won't  you?  Tell  'em  all  about  her.  You  can 
do  it  better  than  I.  I  spoiled  ten  yards  of  canvas 
trying  to  paint  her  without  words.  You  can  tell  'em 
with  words  easily.  You  are  clever." 

7 


THE  UNDEFILED 

He  relapsed  into  the  individual  life,  kicked  off  his 
sandals,  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"I  don't  believe  I  can,"  answered  Miss  Bond,  with 
a  laugh,  a  little  bright  laugh  which  she  hoped  would 
serve  to  rouse  Conningsby  from  his  lethargy.  It  didn't, 
though. 

"Oh,  try!"  said  Dorothy. 

"  She  is  certainly  a  beauty ;  at  least  most  people  think 
so,  some  not  at  first,  but  all  men  shortly." 

A  faint  smile  now  played  about  Conningsby's  mouth. 
Beatrice,  rewarded,  went  on  with  her  warming  eyes 
still  on  the  celebrity's  face. 

"  I  met  her  on  board  ship  six  months  ago.  She  was 
coming  back  to  America." 

"She  is  an  American,  then?"  queried  Lillian,  essay- 
ing to  look  pleasant  and  make  conversation.  She 
loathed  girls  and  hated  the  prospective  novelty  in 
advance. 

"Oh  yes.  She  has  lived  abroad  a  lot  though.  Her 
mother  lives  in  France  and  is  married  to  a  French- 
man, I  believe." 

"No  chaperon?"  Mrs.  Faxon  said,  severely,  for, 
although  a  pioneer  in  the  individual  life,  the  worthy 
lady  still  lapsed  quite  occasionally  into  the  reprehen- 
sible methods  of  the  usual. 

"Well,  no,  none  that  I  know  of,"  Miss  Bond  replied, 
casually.  "You  see,  Mrs.  Faxon,  a  girl  like  that — like 
me,  for  instance — with  her  own  battle  to  fight  with  the 
world,  can't  afford  chaperons.  Miss  Harriman  writes, 
and  she  has,  I  think,  studied  for  the  stage,  and  she  is 
coming  here,  now  I  recall  hearing  Professor  Saunders 
say,  to  recite  or  read  or  something  before  the  school." 

"Oh!"     Mrs.  Faxon's  tone  was  one  of  relief. 

8 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

"How  interesting!"  warbled  Lillian. 

"Charming!"  chimed  in  Dorothy. 

"You  bet!"  remarked  the  brother. 

"How  much,  lad — how  much?" 

A  cheery,  hearty,  wholesome  voice  sounded  from  the 
hallway.  Beatrice  Bond  moved  from  the  door  and 
came  out  on  the  piazza. 

The  man  who  followed  Miss  Bond  out  of  the  house 
was,  on  the  first  look,  such  a  flagrant  contradiction  of 
himself  that  most  people  stared  him  over  a  second 
time.  He  was  medium  height,  square  built,  big  boned, 
well  fleshed,  strong,  clean-cut  as  to  feature,  and  clean- 
shaven, showing  his  good  jaw  and  good  mouth ;  his  eyes 
were  innocently  blue,  his  hair  was  chestnut,  curly, 
and  cropped  close;  he  wore  the  conventional  dress  of 
a  priest  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  was  one.  He 
had  been  born  and  raised  in  Wyoming.  He  had  been 
a  cow-puncher,  a  gambler;  he  had  been  to  wars  and 
seen  foreign  lands,  had  come  back  and  studied  for 
holy  orders,  got  them,  and  now  he  was  having  his  sec- 
ond charge  in  Fairfield.  Buckstone  Grant,  known  on 
the  plains  simply  as  "Buck,"  had  not,  it  must.be  con- 
fessed, the  typical  figure  and  face  for  a  minister;  he 
looked  like  a  prize-fighter ;  he  was  one ;  he  was  as  ear- 
nest as  the  fellows  in  the  game  always  are,  and  he 
was  fighting,  he  said,  day  and  night,  for  his  prize.  He 
was  deep  in  schemes  for  converting  the  back-country 
farming  folk  into  a  decent,  church-going  set.  He  lived 
at  the  Inn  the  year  round ;  he  was  a  bachelor. 

"How  much  '11  you  bet,  lad?" 

"All  I  have,"  was  the  laughing  response. 

"On  what?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"Girl,"  answered  Ernest. 

9 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Buck  laughed  as  he  asked,  "What  girl?" 

"New  one.  Coming  to-day  to  lecture  us,  or  act  for 
us,  or  some  blamed  thing  or  other." 

"It's  Miss  Judith  Harriman,  the  author  of  —  of 
many  short  stories,  I  think,  and  a  book  or  two," 
Beatrice  said,  glad  to  air  information,  but  still  ob- 
livious to  most  things  except  the  proximity  of  Con- 
ningsby. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  cried  the  clergyman.  "I  know.  I've 
read  her  book  and  some  of  her  stories,  too,  ma'am." 

Conningsby  at  last  looked  up.  Professional  impact 
rouses  what  woman's  admiration  will  not  in  the  hearts 
of  some  of  the  nobler  sex. 

"What's  the  name  of  the  book?"  Three  people  ut- 
tered the  same  words:  Conningsby,  Mrs.  Faxon,  and 
Ernest. 

"I  forget  that,  I  do,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "but  I  liked 
it.  It  did  me  good.  I  laughed  over  it  one  whole 
night.  It  was  a  plains  story,  a  story  of  Wyoming, 
you  see,  and  from  the  starting-post  to  the  goal  the 
writer  knew  no  more  about  the  West  than  I  do  about 
making  ladies'  hats,  ma'am!" 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Faxon  said  it  seriously.  "Evidently 
not  a  reliable  young  person." 

The  others  laughed. 

"The  short  stories,  though,  are  bully  good,"  return- 
ed the  man  from  Wyoming.  "Fine.  The  girl  has 
talent,  and  heart,  and  knows  things — outside  of  my 
old  State,"  he  smiled.  "  Glad  she's  coming.  Anybody 
here  ever  met  her  before?" 

"I  have,"  Ernest  said. 

"Where?"  his  mother  inquired  sharply.  Although 
advocating  the  individual  life,  she  still  had  that  in- 

10 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

nate  predilection  for  supervision  over  her  offspring 
which  is  common  alike  to  high  and  low. 

"Well,"  returned  the  lad,  with  a  slight  accession  of 
color,  "do  you  really  want  to  know?" 

They  all  said  "Yes,"  including  Conningsby  and 
Beatrice  Bond.  Conningsby  was  annoyed  with  himself 
almost  as  he  uttered  the  monosyllable,  yet  he  would 
not  withdraw  from  his  position  of  interest  and  inquiry. 
No  one  could  have  told  why,  had  they  been  asked  to 
do  so,  but  each  of  them  there,  the  mother  and  her  two 
daughters,  Buck  Grant,  Conningsby,  and  Miss  Bond, 
felt  that  they  were  about  to  hear  something  unusual, 
something  interesting,  something  that  had  a  certain 
weight ;  this  was  more  especially  the  case  with  the  two 
men. 

"I  was  in  France,"  Ernest  began. 

"Which  time?"  interrupted  the  mother.  "You 
have  been  in  France  several  times,  my  dear." 

"The  last  time,"  resumed  the  boy,  without  a  tinge 
of  annoyance.  "I  was  sketching  in  an  out-of-the-way 
corner  in  Languedoc,  far  from  anything  modern,  and  I 
hadn't  seen  any  woman  in  weeks  except  peasants  in 
sabots  and  caps.  I  was  at  a  cross-roads,  two  miles 
from  the  little  Inn  at  which  I  put  up.  I  was  the 
Inn's  only  guest.  I  was  up  in  the  top  of  a  chestnut- 
tree  trying  to  get  a  sketch  of  some  far-off  meadows 
and  incidentally  of  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,  when  I  saw  a  little  cloud  of  dust  filming  up  the 
eastern  road.  Then  I  saw  a  bicycle  and  a  girl  on  it. 
She  was  spinning  along  like  a  whirlwind,  she  didn't 
see  the  bridge  coping,  her  eyes  were  looking  in,  she  was 
thinking.  I  made  a  lunge  downward  from  my  perch, 
but  before  I  could  reach  ground  a  man  sprang  out — " 

2  II 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"What  man?"  cried  Mrs.  Faxon  in  breathless  but 
exact  inquiry. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  her  son,  patiently.  "He 
caught  the  girl  in  his  arms." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Dorothy.     "How  lovely!" 

"And  saved  her  life!"  pursued  Ernest.  "While  he 
was  so  occupied  it  gave  me  a  chance  to  look  at  her, 
for  I  pulled  myself  up  out  of  sight  pretty  quickly.  I 
just  knew  a  fellow  wouldn't  want  any  help  from  an- 
other fellow  in  the  business  of  saving  that  girl's  life! 
She  was  tremendous!" 

"So  fat?"  queried  Mrs.  Faxon,  with  a  cold,  educa- 
tional eye. 

"So  splendid,"  returned  the  lad  with  equal  coolness 
and  no  resentment.  "Her  hair  was  almost  black,  and 
it  fell  down  in  big,  tumbling  waves  all  over  her  shoul- 
ders and  his,  her  eyes  were  blue,  and  her  lashes  and 
brows  black,  and  her  mouth  red,  and  her  cheeks  scar- 
let." 

"Quite  a  daisy!"  suggested  Buck  Grant,  laughingly. 

"No!"  cried  Ernest,  "no  such  flower.  Some  kind 
of  a  mystical  Oriental  bloom  would  stand  for  her. 
She  was  the  sort  of  a  woman  that  made  a  fellow  re- 
member de  1'Enclos  and  de  Stael  and  Cleopatra  and 
Aspasia  and  that  crowd.  A  sort  of  light,  a  radiance 
and  effulgence,  seemed  to  radiate  from  her — 

"The  whole  harem,"  again  suggested  Buck. 

"You've    hit    it,    Reverend,"    said    Ernest.     "She 
wasn't  one  woman,  she  might  be  a  dozen  of  'em." 
-  "Well,"  said  Lillian.     " Go  on  with  the  story.     How 
did  you  find  out  her  name?     Did  the  man  out  of  no- 
where make  love  to  her?     Or  did  you?     Go  on!" 

"The  man,  after  he'd  picked  her  up  and  set  her 
12 


THE  WHOLE  HAREM 

down  and  looked  her  over  and  seen  she  wasn't  dead 
or  broken,  took  himself  off." 

"Without  speaking  a  word?"  exclaimed  Dorothy. 

"None  that  I  heard,"  responded  her  brother. 
"Then  she  sat  still  a  bit.  So  did  I.  Then  she  mount- 
ed her  wheel  and  went  on.  When  I  got  back  that 
afternoon  to  the  Inn,  I  inquired  and  they  told  me  her 
name  and  that  her  mother  lived  at  Sableau,  ten  miles 
away,  and  that  she  was  visiting  her." 

"You  went  to  Sableau,  of  course?"  smiled  Con- 
ningsby. 

"Yes.  She  had  gone  away."  Ernest  relapsed  then 
into  the  strictly  individual  life,  while  Beatrice  Bond's 
eyes  and  Conningsby's  met.  Both  of  them  laughed  a 
little.  The  clergyman  laughed  with  them. 

"Well,"  Beatrice  said.  "It's  an  exaggerated  ac- 
count, of  course,  but  it's  based  on  fact ;  she  is  uncom- 
monly fetching." 

The  Rector  was  silent. 

The  Poet  sank  back  in  his  hammock  with  an  air  of 
somewhat  bored  indulgence. 

"Fetching,"  he  drawled,  lazily.  "Anyway,  Ernest 
has  quite  a  gift  of  the  descriptive ;  it  was  a  vivid  picture 
he  drew  for  us  of  the  fair — " 

"Dark,"  interpolated  Buck  Grant. 

"Dark,  then,"  amended  Conningsby,  "the  dark  and 
divine  Miss  Judith  Harriman." 

She  had  arrived  and  alighted  from  the  wagon  at  the 
sunny  front  porch ;  these  people  were  at  the  rear  in 
the  shade.  She  had  come  around  on  hearing  voices, 
as  no  one  was  at  the  entrance  to  greet  her.  She  had 
heard  Conningsby's  sentence.  She  laughingly  stood 
at  the  portal,  all  her  bloom  and  brilliancy,  the  strange, 

13 


THE  UNDEFILED 

expectant  quality  of  her  beauty,  framed  in  the  old  oak 
doorway.  She  bowed.  The  three  men  sprang  to 
their  feet;  even  the  two  who  had  never  beheld  her 
knew  on  the  spot  who  she  was  before  she  spoke. 

"I  am  Judith  Harriman,"  she  said.  "If  you  please, 
where  is  the  hotel  man? — or  Professor  Saunders?" 
Her  little  salutation,  easeful,  gracious,  charming,  in- 
cluded them  all.  Her  voice,  low,  soft,  yet  with  its 
thrilling  quality  quite  perceptible  even  in  these  com- 
monplace words,  rang  true  to  the  hearts  of  both  Con- 
ningsby  and  Grant.  Neither  of  these  most  dissimilar 
men  had  ever  seen  or  heard  anything  like  this  before, 
and  each  recognized  this  new  thing  at  once. 

While  they  were  recognizing  it,  Beatrice  sprang  for- 
ward and  recognized  her  whilom  fellow-voyager.  Miss 
Harriman  was  soon  well  taken  care  of,  shown  to  her 
room,  and  plied  with  tea  and  cakes,  after  having  had 
the  people  on  the  piazza  duly  presented  to  her. 


II 

THE    DUKE    DE    MONTRESOR    ARRIVES 

IT  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  life  at  the  Fairfield 
summer -school  took  on  a  different  aspect  from 
the  day  of  Miss  Harriman's  arrival.  Her  vivid  per- 
sonality seemed  to  pervade  everything  and  every- 
body, and,  as  Buck  Grant  assured  himself  in  the  in- 
most recesses  of  his  own  soul,  "the  sunshine  itself 
took  on  a  greater  radiance,  he  was  plumb  sure,  when 
this  lady  walked  down  street" — for  the  Rector  stood 
undissuaded  from  the  use  of  the  word  "  lady  "  and  de- 
clined to  leave  it  to  the  kitchen.  Judith,  without 
much  loss  of  time,  became  the  "lady"  of  his  soul,  and 
he  found  her  unaccountably  mingled  with  all  his 
schemes  for  improving  the  farmers  and  luring  the 
children  to  Sunday-school.  Whether  Miss  Harriman 
was  aware  of  this  or  not  was  not  exactly  clear.  In 
any  event,  it  was  the  other  man  who  entertained  her; 
Conningsby  amused  her  frankly  at  the  start,  and 
gradually  by  those  tactful  paths  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  tread,  nay,  to  thresh  out,  for  a  woman's  benefit, 
she  became  actually  interested  almost  in  spite  of  her- 
self, for  this  type  of  man  so  far  had  had  no  intrinsic 
appeal  for  her.  Beatrice  Bond  seemed  no  whit  less 
fascinated  than  the  two  men.  She  sat  with  Miss 
Harriman;  wherever  she  could,  she  walked  and  drove 

15 


THE  UNDEFILED 

with  her,  she  listened  to  her  talk  with  a  rapt  atten- 
tion, and  presently  she  began  to  imitate  her,  which 
is  said  to  be  the  sincerest  form  of  flattery.  It  was  a 
poor  game,  and  worse  than  that,  because  Judith  Har- 
riman's  way  and  manners  would  not  fit  any  other 
woman;  they  were  clearly  borrowed  plumes,  nodding 
ungracefully  and  uneasily  on  Beatrice's  brow;  yet  she 
persisted. 

The  new-comer  made  a  little  success  of  it  as  reader 
of  her  own  plays  and  stories  before  the  school ;  also  as 
a  lecturer  on  the  pleasant  pursuit  of  studying  for  the 
stage,  which,  it  appeared,  she  had  done  in  Paris  under 
some  great  artist.  Yet  it  was  distinctly  pitiful,  all 
this  reciting,  miming,  lecturing.  The  girl  had  brains, 
beauty,  even  force  and  conviction  sufficient  to  carry 
her  along,  but  like  those  strangely  prevalent  and  re- 
current little  magazines  which  we  are  invited  to  sub- 
scribe for  every  year,  and  for  whose  existence  there 
is  no  earthly  or  celestial  excuse,  so  was  there  no  ex- 
cuse for  Judith  Harriman's  little  plays,  lectures,  talks, 
and  so  forth.  She  had  nothing  new  or  original  or  re- 
markable to  say  or  to  impart.  She  was  simply  and 
self-evidently  a  young  woman  trying  to  earn  a  living 
with  no  equipment  of  any  consequence,  weight,  or  im- 
portance adequate  to  the  task,  in  which  respect  she 
was  merely  one  of  thousands  who  are  daily  coaxing 
the  dollars  out  of  our  pockets. 

There  was  something  electric,  instantaneous,  about 
her,  a  compelling  and  irresistible  power  which  sur- 
rounded her  and  encompassed  those  who  approached 
her,  touching  them  into  an  immortal  vividness  and 
quickness,  whether  to  their  own  undoing  or  not  time 
alone  could  tell.  She  impressed  men  more  especially 

16 


THE  DUKE    DE   MONTRESOR  ARRIVES 

with  the  elusive  quality  of  her  very  being;  so  that, 
whatever  they  had  in  mind  to  tell  her  or  to  ask  from 
her,  they  were  sure  had  to  be  done  in  a  hurry,  at 
once,  or  never,  fearing  unconsciously  always  that  the 
next  day  or  hour  she  would  have  escaped  them. 

She  hardly  realized  this,  not  yet;  some  of  her  powers 
she  was  aware  of,  but  not  all.  Indeed,  frankly,  too, 
her  present  environment  failed  to  impress  her  to  any 
extent ;  she  had  things  in  the  past  which  claimed  more 
of  her  mind  than  Fairfield  or  those  she  found  there. 
The  incident  which  Ernest  Faxon  had  so  character- 
istically described  in  the  few  moments  before  her  ar- 
rival at  the  Inn,  formed  no  small  part  of  Miss  Harri- 
man's  reminiscences.  The  man  who  had  really  saved 
her  life  was  oftener  in  her  thoughts  than  any  man  she 
had  ever  met  in  her  life,  and  her  life  had  been  such  as 
to  throw  many  and  very  attractive  men  across  her 
path.  She  did  not  know  his  name  or  his  nationality, 
save  this  latter  by  intuition,  which  said  "American"; 
he  had  spoken  but  very  few  words  that  sunny  sweet 
day  on  the  old  French  road  in  response  to  her  ejacula- 
tive  "Oh!" 

He  had  replied:  "You  are  not  hurt,  I  think,  but  it 
was  a  close  call.  Be  more  careful  in  future,  won't 
you?" 

She  answered:  "But  you've  saved  my  life.  I  do 
thank  you.  I  do." 

He  had  then  bowed  gravely,  picked  up  his  fallen 
cap,  said,  "I'm  glad  I  was  the  one  to  do  it.  You 
must  not  thank  me  for  anything,"  and  gone  away. 
That  was  all,  but  the  remembrance  of  the  face  was 
with  her  always.  It  was  a  strong  face,  tender,  serious, 
and  watchful,  with  keen  eyes  showing  blue  some  mo- 


THE  UNDEFILED 

ments  for  passion  and  gentleness,  steel  gray  at  others 
for  the  world  and  for  affairs;  hair  as  black  as  Miss 
Harriman's  own,  clinging  in  crisp,  close-cut  waves  to 
a  fine,  shapely  head;  a  big,  mobile  mouth  flexing  into 
ready  smiles;  the  nose  aquiline,  proud,  spirited,  and 
full  of  character;  the  brow  not  too  high  but  very  broad, 
the  brows  singularly  level  and  very  black;  tall,  slender, 
firmly  knit,  with  handsome  hands  and  feet.  Powerful, 
she  knew,  for  she  could  shut  her  eyes  and  feel,  even 
months  after  the  occurrence,  the  eager,  splendid  as- 
surance with  which  he  had  picked  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  carried  her  out  of  death's  way. 

Miss  Harriman  was  thinking  of  this  as  she  sat  in 
a  little  buck-board  in  the  barn  of  the  Inn  reading  a 
foreign  letter.  There  was  no  horse  in  the  shafts,  the 
Innkeeper's  son,  aged  ten,  was  just  then  engaged  in 
chasing  the  steed  'cross  lots  in  the  vain  hope  of  catch- 
ing him  for  Miss  Harriman's  afternoon  drive.  As  the 
process  of  catching  him  generally  lasted  a  couple  of 
hours,  she  had  been  safe  to  fetch  out  her  books  and 
letters  into  the  shady,  hay-smelling  old  barn,  rather 
than  to  sit  on  the  sunny  piazza.  No  one  had  followed 
her.  They  had  all  tacitly  learned  that  when  Miss 
Harriman  got  foreign  letters  from  the  mail  it  was 
better  to  leave  her  to  herself  until  she  had  mastered 
them.  They  decided  that  she  had  a  foreign  lover,  or 
one  absent  in  foreign  lands.  Beatrice  Bond  fervently 
hoped  it  might  be  so,  but  was  not  too  sure.  Ernest 
Faxon  was  positive,  for  once  agreeing  with  his  sisters, 
that  it  must,  of  course,  be  the  man  from  Languedoc. 
Conningsby,  while  he  outwardly  deferred  to  the  ma- 
jority in  judgment,  was  quite  impressed  with  the  idea 
that,  while  these  foreign  letters  might  be  written  by 

18 


THE  DUKE  DE  MONTRfiSOR  ARRIVES 

a  man,  the  writer  of  them  was  not  the  man  of  Miss 
Harriman's  last  and  best  fancy. 

Miss  Harriman  puzzled  Conningsby.  He  had  never, 
strange  to  say,  in  all  his  world-wide  travels,  met  a 
woman  in  the  least  like  this  American  young  woman 
whom  he  watched  with  all  a  fond  lover's  greed  when- 
ever he  got  a  chance.  Women  had  always  been  aware 
of  Conningsby,  had  always  let  him  see  that  they  were 
aware  of  him ;  this  girl  did  not  appear  to  be  conscious 
of  his  presence  until  he  himself  called  her  attention  to 
the  fact.  Then,  it  is  true,  she  was  responsive,  charm- 
ing— at  times,  he  was  sure,  forgot  herself  and  only 
remembered  his  undeniable  fascination  of  manner  and 
speech.  At  night  he  would  congratulate  himself  on 
the  steps  forward  he  had  taken,  the  gains  he  had 
made  in  her  esteem,  her  understanding  of  him;  he 
would  believe  her  nature  aroused,  her  spirit  awak- 
ened, as  he  pressed  her  hand  in  his  and  looked  down 
into  her  wonderful  eyes  with  their  odd  Mongolian  tilt. 
Then  in  the  morning,  when  they  met,  he,  expectant, 
thrilling  with  the  recollection  of  the  night  before,  only 
found  himself  back  at  the  beginning  again,  and  Miss 
Harriman  gay,  vivacious,  recalcitrant,  with  no  recall 
of  their  last  night's  talk. 

Conningsby  had  seen  her  go  out  to  the  barn  with 
her  letters,  but  these  did  not  deter  him;  in  fact,  he 
felt  inspired  with  a  species  of  joy  at  the  coming  im- 
pact with  those  letters.  He  meant  to  seize  them  and 
put  them  out  of  her  reach  and  make  her  listen  to  him, 
for  he  intended  to  speak  to  her  as  he  had  never  spoken 
to  woman  before.  She  possessed  him  utterly;  her 
image,  her  atmosphere,  her  singular,  bewitching  self 
dominated  this  man  and  made  him  forget  what 


THE  UNDEFILED 

he  had  never   forgotten   before  in  all  his  life — him- 
self. 

Beatrice  Bond  watched  him  cross  the  lawn  to  the 
barn;  he  had  indeed  risen  from  where  she  had  seated 
herself  beside  him  and  left  her  with  her  easel  and 
paints.  When  he  reached  the  big  open  door  and  start- 
ed in,  he  saw  that  Judith  Harriman  was  not  alone. 
Buck  Grant  was  there  with  her,  he  had  just  come  in. 
Conningsby  retraced  his  steps.  Beatrice  Bond  laughed. 
She  thought  it  a  good  omen,  and  said  to  herself:  "He 
may  stay  away  from  me  now  for  a  while,  but  he  will 
return.  I  will  wait." 

But  he  did  not  return  to  her  just  then ;  he  went  up  to 
his  room  and  sat  there  until  twilight,  holding  Judith  Har- 
riman close  in  the  arms  of  his  imagination  all  the  while. 

When  Buck  Grant  came  into  the  barn,  Judith  did 
not  look  around.  She  thought  it  was  one  of  the  farm- 
hands, until  she  felt  a  touch  on  the  near  shaft,  which 
made  her  glance  up. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "Mr.  Grant,  is  it  you?  I 
thought  Jimmie  must  have  caught  Dobbin  unusually 
soon  to-day,"  she  laughed. 

"It's  I."  He  leaned  against  the  dash-board  and 
looked  at  her.  "I  know  it's  no  use,"  he  proceeded  in 
a  leisurely  way,  his  eyes  taking  in  all  the  rare  beauty 
of  the  face  and  figure  before- him. 

"What  is  of  no  use?"  she  rilled  in  his  pause  by  in- 
quiring. "Trying  to  catch  Dobbin?" 

"No;  telling  you  what  I  want  to." 

"Then,  if  you're  utilitarian,  don't  tell  me." 

"Want  to,  though,"  replied  the  Wyoming  man. 

"Then — "  She  stopped  short,  smiled  at  him,  and 
began  to  fold  up  the  letters  in  her  lap. 

20 


THE  DUKE  DE  MONTRESOR  ARRIVES 

"Love  you, "he  said,  plaintively.  She  laughed,  mu- 
sically, so  that  it  sounded  as  if  she  were  sure  he  would 
laugh  too.  But  he  said,  "Don't  laugh,"  quickly,  and 
she  stopped. 

"Could  never  expect  you  to  care  a  penny  about  me 
or  to  settle  down  to  this  sort  of  life  here  or  anywhere, 
but  wanted  you  should  know — that's  all."  He  turned 
on  his  heel  and  started  away  from  her. 

"But — please,  Mr.  Grant  '  she  spoke  very  softly, 
her  heart  touched  by  the  simple  forlornness  of  his 
speech  and  behavior.  He  looked  around. 

"Can't  we  be  friends,  you  and  I?" 

"Nope,"  he  answered,  relapsing  into  the  vernacular 
of  his  earlier  days  and  then  correcting  himself.  "No; 
love  like  mine  never  degenerates  into  the  sort  of  an 
ash  they  call  friendship.  It  keeps  on  a  blazing  fire 
right  plumb  through  to  the  end.  Won't  die,  no;  but 
living  without  you  '11  be  a  blamed  sight  harder  than 
kickin'  the  bucket." 

She  murmured,  very  gently:  "I  wish  I  had  not  come 
here  at  all." 

"Don't  say  that — don't  say  that!  I  wouldn't  have 
missed  you  for  the  saving  of  my  soul.  I'm  going  over 
to  the  church  now;  prayers  at  four." 

"Pray — for  me,"  the  girl  said, brokenly. 

The  man  nodded  and  went  over  to  his  church. 
Seeing  him  cross  the  road,  Conningsby  again  started 
for  the  barn,  but  this  second  time,  also,  he  was  des- 
tined to  defeat  of  purpose.  He  had  no  sooner  reached 
Miss  Harriman,  and  established  himself  in  an  easy  at- 
titude near  the  buck-board,  than  a  distracted-looking 
housemaid  ran  in,  holding  a  card  between  her  fingers 
at  which  her  round  eyes  were  wildly  staring.  She 

21 


THE  UNDEFILED 

was  a  somewhat  accomplished  school-teacher  in  the 
winter  season  and  had  been  on  a  Cook's  tour  abroad. 

She  pushed  the  card  with  its  coronet  before  Miss 
Harriman's  eyes. 

"A  duke!"  she  remarked,  surveying  the  young 
woman  in  the  buck-board  with  both  amazement  and 
severity. 

Miss  Harriman  took  the  card.  Conningsby  took  a 
turn  down  the  length  of  the  big  barn. 

Miss  Harriman  became  very  pale  as  she  scrutinized 
the  card;  the  young  person  who  had  fetched  it  was 
restive — she  was  leaving  when  Miss  Harriman  spoke. 

"Please  say  I  am  not  at  home." 

"Not  at  home!"  echoed  the  combined  teacher  and 
housemaid.  "But  you  are." 

"  I  know,  but  it  is  conventionally  understood,  Caro- 
line; it  is  not  a  falsehood." 

"But  it  is,"  stoutly  averred  Caroline,  "and  I  won't 
tell  it  for  you  or  any  duke  that  lives.  Now!"  Caro- 
line bolted. 

Conningsby  drew  near. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  convey  your  message  to  the 
visitor?"  he  asked,  quietly,  while  his  eyes  shone  with 
double  pleasure  at  serving  her  and  sending  away  a 
fellow  man. 

"Would  you?"  she  said,  while  her  face  became  even 
paler. 

"Would  I!"  he  repeated,  ardently.  "Would  I  not 
do  anything  for  you?" 

She  did  not  look  up.  "Would  you  then  mind  tell- 
ing him  that  I  am  gone  away?" 

"I  will  tell  him  you  have  gone  away."  Connings- 
by's  tone  was  infinitely  tender,  he  had  a  wonderful 

22 


THE  DUKE  DE  MONTRESOR  ARRIVES 

voice  for  tenderness.  He  started  to  perform  his 
errand,  but  the  implacable  Caroline  had  been  before 
him.  As  he  reached  the  wide  barn  door  he  met  a 
very  trim,  handsome,  slim,  unmistakable  Frenchman, 
with  an  air  of  well-bred  if  slightly  tentative  assurance. 
The  visitor  beheld  Judith  Harriman  seated  in  the  buck- 
board,  and  cried  aloud,  in  his  native  tongue. 

"But,  my  adorable  Judith!" 

At  this  Conningsby  went  back  to  the  house.  Bea- 
trice Bond  was  there  still,  sitting  where  he  had  left 
her.  She  looked  happy  and  she  was  humming  a  little, 
triumphant  air. 

The  "adorable  Judith"  sat  motionless  while  the 
stranger  proceeded.  "I  have  found  you!  Oh,  cruel 
one,  to  have  so  treated  him  who  worships  the  ground 
upon  which  you  tread." 

Still  Miss  Harriman,  white  now  to  the  lips,  was 
silent. 

"Aha!  What  do  I  see?"  pursued  the  Duke,  his 
glance  resting  on  the  letters  in  her  lap.  "My  letters! 
Not  strayed,  but  safe  in  your  always  charming  little 
hands.  Also,"  his  eyes  travelling  further  over  the 
letters,  "the  epistles  of  madame  your  mother.  Hold 
now!  Why,  why,  my  amiable  and  very  beautiful  one, 
do  you  treat  us  both  thus  ?" 

"Will  you  please  go  away?"  was  Miss  Harriman's 
final  response. 

"But  no!  Impossible.  We  must  arrive  at  two  ar- 
rangements. I  adore,  I  love,  I  venerate  you  as  ever." 
Miss  Judith  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  jumped  out  of 
the  buck-board. 

The  Duke,  no  less  agile,  barred  her  pathway  to  the 
exit. 

23 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"I  am  your  slave,  but  I  must  detain  you.  Listen. 
Not  only  I,  my  well  beloved,  but  the  law  decides  that 
you  must  return  at  once  to  France." 

She  merely  looked  him  over;  it  was  answer  suffi- 
cient. Yet  he  was  playing  for  high  stakes  and  he 
shook  off  the  strange  weirdness  of  those  Orient  eyes. 

"Useless,"  he  said,  in  a  lowered  tone.  "Madame 
your  mother  is  determined,  I  am  determined,  that  it 
shall  not  slip  through  our  fingers.  It  will  without 
you.  Therefore,  my  well  beloved,  it  is  that  I  must 
take  you  back.  Listen,  I  love  you;  you  believe  it? 
Once  you  did,  yes?  Still  you  do  the  same.  It  is  your 
own  benefit  that  I  engage  in,  that  I  have  sworn  to 
stand  by.  The  law  of  France,  my  country,  must  be 
fulfilled.  You  must  come." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No?"  said  the  Duke  between  very  fierce  lips,  while 
his  color  rose. 

"No,"  she  repeated,  in  a  low,  determined  voice. 

The  Duke  cast  a  superficial  and  helpless  glance 
around  the  barn,  as  if  expecting  a  possible  legion  of 
vassals  to  spring  out  of  the  hay-lofts  to  his  assistance. 
Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  bit  in  his  under  lip 
and  drew  nearer  to  his  companion. 

"But,  my  dearest,"  he  now  whispered  in  most 
gentle  accents,  "remember  your  love  for  me;  our  ex- 
changed vows,  the  future  we  planned,  the"  —here 
his  Grace  halted  with  intention  and  fixed  upon  this 
girl  the  full  and  piercing  battery  of  his  fine,  cunning, 
expressive  eyes — "magnificent  scheme  which — you — 
yourself — planned;  only,  I  am  chagrined,  desolated, 
to  say,  to  strike  it  almost  to  death  as  it  was  beginning 
to  bear  fruit.  That  was  unwise,  childish,  absurd,  but 

24 


THE  DUKE  DE  MONTRESOR  ARRIVES 

not  irreparable.  The  letters  of  madame  your  mother, 
and  my  own  poor  ones,  have  rehearsed  to  you  the 
state  of  the  case  and  the  law.  Without  you  we  can 
do  nothing;  with  you  everything.  My  well  beloved, 
listen  to  the  pleadings  of  your  own  Gaston." 

At  this  point  Miss  Harriman  smiled. 

"You  will!  You  do!  You  will  return  with  me  to 
our  beautiful  France,  to  your  adored  mamma,  to  fulfil 
your  destiny,  to  fulfil  the  law!  Yes?  Yes?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Miss  Harriman.  "Now  you  had 
really  better  go  away.  You  are  wasting  time.  I  will 
not  change.  I  will  not." 

"But  yes,"  retorted  the  Duke,  thoughtfully.  "Oh 
yes.  There  are  ways.  We  must  employ  them." 

"So  long  as  you  go  away,"  she  allowed. 

"You  despise  me!     Your  own  Gaston?" 

She  nodded  as  he  wrung  his  beautiful  white  hands. 

"  You  do ?"  He  seized  her  wrists:  she  nodded  again 
and  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  "But  we  shall  see, 
mademoiselle — we  shall  see!  To  despise  a  Duke  de 
Montresor  is  not  one  jest." 

"Dead  earnest,"  she  remarked  in  English,  which  he 
but  partly  comprehended,  therefore  she  had  accom- 
panied the  two  words  by  a  nod. 

"I  swear  to  you  by  blue,  by  all  saints,  and  so  forth, 
I  will  take  you  back  to  France  with  me  to  your  duty, 
to  where  you  belong,  at  my  side."  He  flung  her  a 
little  from  him,  melodramatically,  then  made  a  run 
to  her,  slipping  a  bit  on  the  smooth  threshing-floor  of 
the  old  barn,  and  brought  up  on  his  knees  at  her  side, 
grasping  her  hands  and  covering  them  with  kisses,  as 
he  continued:  "Ah,  again  you  will  love  me,  be  mine. 
You  will  carry  out  your  destiny  and  reign  over  one  of 

25 


THE  UNDEFILED 

the  greatest  fortunes  in  France.  I  implore  forgive- 
ness, mercy,  but" — seeing  the  light  of  neither  of  these 
interesting  qualities  in  Miss  Harriman's  countenance, 
the  Duke,  though  still  on  his  knees,  resumed  the  other 
tone — "but  if  you  insist,  then,  I  must  call  to  my  aid 
the  force." 

Miss  Harriman's  only  answer  to  this  threat  was  a 
ripple  of  mocking  laughter. 

"But,  my  well  beloved,  laugh  not  at  me,"  exclaimed 
the  enraged  Duke.  "  You  see  me  at  your  feet,  yes! 
Captive  to  your  incomparable  charms  assuredly,  al- 
ways, but  if  you  refuse  to  return  to  beautiful  France 
with  me,  then  I  employ  the  what  you  call — secret  ser- 
vice. For  money  one  can  do  all  things.  I  have  money, 
and  I  mean" — his  tone  was  then  brutal — "to  have 
you  and  what  is  yours,  to  fulfil  the  law." 

Gaston,  Duke  de  Montre"sor,  now  arose  from  his 
knees  and  slid  gracefully  back  three  or  four  paces 
from  Miss  Harriman.  He  fixed  his  eyes  persuasively 
upon  her  with  an  almost  melting  expression. 

"You  come,  my  well  beloved,  you  come?"  He  ex- 
tended his  open  arms  towards  her. 

"  I  stay,"  she  remarked,  coolly,  pointing  to  the  barn 
door,  out  of  which  he  presently  bowed  himself  gal- 
lantly, knowing  quite  well  that  she  meant  what  she 
said. 


Ill 

WHAT    THE    TROUBLE-WAGON    TOOK    AWAY 

DUKE!"  The  magical  and  pleasing  word  went 
around  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  thence  all  over  the 
little  village  of  Fairfield.  By  twos  and  threes  the 
young  girls  sauntered  past,  casting  cornerwise  eyes  at 
the  porch  and  the  barn,  where  he  had  been,  so  Caro- 
line reported,  unwillingly  entertained  by  Miss  Harri- 
man.  Caroline,  for  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours,  be- 
came a  power  in  Fairfield  life  entirely  divorced  from 
her  usual  straitened  position  of  school-mistress.  Caro- 
line had  met  the  Duke,  and  not  only  this,  but  Caro- 
line had  thwarted  a  lie  and  been  the  active  measure 
in  confronting  the  liar  with  her  own  sin.  Moreover, 
when  the  Duke  had,  with  his  usual  jaunty  mien  some- 
what saddened,  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Inn  and  re- 
mounted the  little  vehicle  which  had  fetched  him 
from  the  station,  it  had  been  Caroline  who  had  at- 
tended him,  picked  up  his  fallen  handkerchief  and 
waved  a  smiling  good  -  bye  to  him  from  the  porch. 
Had  he  responded?  Nobly.  With  a  half-dollar  for 
the  handkerchief  and  the  sweetest  of  smiles  for  the 
salute.  While  Caroline  and  all  her  friends,  be  it  thor- 
oughly understood,  felt  all  that  lofty  disdain  for  titles 
which  we  know  is  indigenous  to  and  powerful  in  the 
American  heart,  she  yet  shared,  in  common  with  most 
3  27 


THE  UNDEFILED 

of  her  compatriots,  that  sense  of  justice  which  almost 
invariably  compels  them,  when  they  personally  en- 
counter a  title,  to  do  its  possessor  a  most  ample  justice 
of  demeanor,  and,  though  doubtless  scorning  the  afore- 
said title,  still  to  pay  tribute  of  manner  and  easy  pleas- 
ant speech  to  him  who  unluckily  bears  it. 

While  Caroline  described  and  redescribed  his  Grace 
in  the  kitchen  and  later  in  the  post-office  and  store, 
also  at  the  milliner's  and  the  dressmaker's,  the  people 
at  the  Inn  were  not  far  behind  in  their  interest  over 
the  handsome  foreigner  who  had  contrived  an  inter- 
view with  Miss  Harriman,  it  would  seem,  against  that 
young  woman's  will. 

"A  duke,"  murmured  Mrs.  Faxon,  contemplatively. 

"Good  looking.  I  saw  him  from  my  window,"  re- 
sponded Lillian.  "What  luck  some  girls  do  have! 
And  she  did  not  wish  even  to  see  him." 

"Not  at  home!"  cried  Dorothy.     "Did  you  ever?" 

"  Pshaw!"  said  Ernest.  "  Bet  you  my  bottom  dollar 
Miss  Harriman  'd  rather  have  seen  that  big  fellow  in 
Languedoc  than  this  dapper  chap  you  tell  of,  title  or 
no  title." 

"Oh!"  chorussed  two  of  the  women. 

"Who  cares!"  ejaculated  Dorothy.  "Mr.  Grant  or 
a  man  like  him  is  worth  any  dozen  titled  fellows  in  the 
world!" 

"O-ho!"  laughed  Ernest.     "Is  he?" 

"Well,  I  must  say,"  remarked  Lillian,  "now  I've 
been  in  the  house  with  Miss  Harriman  for  some  weeks, 
that  I  can't  see  where  her  attraction  lies." 

"Doesn't  lie!"  retorted  the  brother.  "Speaks  the 
truth  every  time!" 

"How  brilliant!"  sneered  Lillian. 
28 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

"A  girl  whom  every  man  admires  is  apt  to  be  any- 
thing but  true,"  continued  the  elder  daughter  of  the 
individual  life  with  a  virtuous  expression. 

"Every  man,"  repeated  Mrs.  Faxon.  "Why!  do 
all  the  men  admire  Miss  Harriman?  I  hadn't  ob- 
served it." 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  Ernest. 

"Conningsby  does,"  said  Dorothy.  "He  just  eats 
her  with  his  eyes  whenever  she's  in  sight." 

"So  does  Buck  Grant,"  Miss  Lillian  exclaimed,  glad 
to  retaliate  this  shot  upon  the  sister  who  had  dis- 
pleased her. 

"Yes,"  Dorothy  answered  bravely.  "I've  seen  it, 
but  he'll  never  get  her,  and  the  girl  who  gets  him  will 
never  have  but  second  place  in  his  heart." 

"Bosh!"  said  Ernest.  "The  Dominie's  all  right. 
He  doesn't  care  for  any  girl;  he's  over  head  and  heels 
in  love  with  his  church  and  things." 

"Maybe,"  Dorothy  Faxon  answered,  "but  his 
heart's  taking  another  run  than  that." 

All  the  other  ladies  at  the  Inn  had  their  own  par- 
ticular say  about  the  Duke  and  Miss  Harriman,  the 
general  result  being  that  she  was  most  horrid  to  have 
attempted  to  evade  seeing  him,  that  Caroline  was  a 
species  of  heroine  and  faith-defender — and  that  it  was 
an  enormous  pity  that,  as  they  had  both  spoken  in 
French,  no  one,  even  those  on  the  end  of  the  piazza, 
nearest  the  barn,  had  been  able  to  make  out  what 
they  said,  or  even  the  bare  drift  of  their  conversation. 

Miss  Harriman  meantime  pursued  the  even  tenor 
of  her  way;  giving  her  pretty  little  "readings"  and 
"talks"  at  the  library  twice  a  week,  and  sparing 
some  of  her  time  for  all  the  people  and  a  small  por- 

29 


THE  UNDEFILED 

tion  of  it  for  Conningsby.  Ever  since  the  day  of  the 
Duke's  visit,  from  the  moment  when  Conningsby  had 
offered  to  carry  the  message  to  Montrdsor  for  her, 
there  had  been  established  a  certain  kind  of  free- 
masonry between  these  two,  more  patent  to  the  man 
than  to  the  woman ;  for  the  man  was  absorbed  in  her, 
while  the  woman  was  absorbed,  almost  entirely,  in  her 
own  intimate  affairs,  and  of  these  Conningsby  as  yet 
did  not  form  a  part. 

As  to  the  Duke's  threat  of  force,  his  talk  of  secret 
service  and  law,  Judith  Harriman  laughed  at  it  with 
her  lips,  although  it  is  true  that  she  sometimes  shiv- 
ered at  night,  or  even  at  twilight  when  she  found 
herself,  as  she  was  fond  of  doing,  quite  alone  at  the 
edge  of  the  long  woods,  as  a  certain  piece  of  forest 
land  was  called  that  lay  eastward  from  the  village 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  stretching  far  in  almost  un- 
broken shadow  towards  the  country  of  the  rising  sun. 
A  beautiful  brook  rushed  and  quavered  through  these 
woods,  sometimes  softly  lapping  between  low-rounded, 
mossy  banks,  where  the  wild -flowers  that  love  the 
shady  places  grew,  where  fringing  swamp-ferns  swept 
the  water,  where  great  willows  dipped  their  feathery 
green  into  the  little  ripples,  where  birds  flitted  in  fear- 
less joy.  Sometimes  the  bed  of  this  brook  deepened 
down  into  a  chasm,  dark,  very  narrow  where  it  had  cut 
its  way  for  countless  centuries  into  the  red  limestone, 
carving  with  its  patient,  persistent  chisel  at  the  rock 
and  wearing  it  into  long  grooves,  into  circling  pools; 
over  these  deep  places  larches  swung  and  the  wind 
sang  through  their  branches,  and  the  balm  of  their 
resinous  breath  was  strength  and  pleasure  to  those 
who  came  that  way.  They  were  few.  Miss  Harri- 

30 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

man  was  one.  She  loved  the  place,  and  although  she 
was  a  little  timid  at  being  alone,  she  was  generally  will- 
ing to  risk  a  shiver  for  the  sake  of  experiencing  com- 
plete solitude.  There  were  times  when  the  girl  had  to 
get  away  from  all  these  people  at  the  Inn  and  seek  a 
retreat  for  her  thoughts  where  no  human  voice  could 
reach  her.  Such  a  time  came  about  one  week  after  the 
visit  of  the  Duke  de  Montresor. 

It  was  a  soft,  prophetic  afternoon,  warm,  the  gray 
sky  brilliant  with  the  white  light  that  comes  before  the 
thunder ;  it  was  still,  neither  the  leaves  nor  the  grain 
stirred.  There  was  such  a  hush  upon  the  face  of  all 
nature  as  is  exquisitely  restful  to  a  tired  soul,  and  yet 
full  of  those  premonitions  which  silence  holds  for  one 
who  knows  how  to  listen.  Judith  went  out  of  the  Inn 
and  eastward  towards  the  long  woods.  Conningsby, 
from  his  window,  where  he  sat  writing  on  a  new  book, 
saw  her  start.  His  first  impulse  was  to  follow  her,  but 
he  conquered  it  and  sat  still.  Meantime  the  girl  went 
on  to  the  woods. 

There  were  other  eyes  upon  her  besides  Conningsby's 
refraining  ones.  Two  pairs,  one  belonging  to  a  wom- 
an, the  other  to  a  man.  These  followed  her,  but  alert 
and  sensitive  as  she  was,  she  did  not  feel  them,  or,  if 
she  did,  it  was  an  evanescent  scent.  Once  she  paused 
in  her  woodland  walk  and  thought  she  heard  the  crackle 
of  the  leaves  and  brush  beneath  a  following  tread.  Her 
head  went  up  like  a  deer's  who  dreads  a  pursuer.  Then 
she  smiled,  shook  herself,  and  went  on  deeper  into  the 
heart  of  the  forest,  nearer  to  the  babble  of  the  brook, 
gaining  its  edge  in  a  very  few  moments.  She  sat  down 
on  the  rocky  bank  and  looked  about  her.  The  trees 
enclosed  this  basin  with  the  drooping  embrace  of  their 


THE  UNDEFILED 

long  arms  so  that  it  was  almost  roofed  in  by  bowering 
green,  and  the  sky  was  so  shut  out  that  it  was  dark  there 
even  on  the  sunniest  days ;  the  more  so  now  when  the 
electric  clouds  were  blackening  all  across  the  horizon, 
spreading  their  pall  from  west  to  east,  and  presently 
covering  every  inch  of  blue  with  their  sombre  threats. 
Judith  leaned  far  back  on  the  moss-covered  top  of  the 
big  rock;  then  she  lay  down,  her  face  upturned.  Of 
what  did  she  think  as  she  lay  there  ?  Of  events  in  her 
past  life?  Presently  she  heard  the  thunder,  far  off, 
sleepy.  Conningsby,  in  his  room  at  the  Inn,  heard  it 
too.  He  sprang  from  his  table,  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
was  out  of  the  house  at  a  swinging  gait  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  long  woods  in  less  than  ten  minutes. 

Others,  also,  had  heard  the  distant  roll  of  the  thun- 

• 

der.  The  man  and  the  keen-eyed  woman.  They,  too, 
now  advanced  a  trifle  from  their  position,  but  with  an 
extreme  caution. 

This  justified  itself  presently,  for  they  almost  encoun- 
tered Conningsby,  and  had  he  not  been  absorbed 
in  eager  anticipation  he  must  certainly  have  heard 
them. 

As  it  was,  he  nearly  brushed  them  in  his  hurry ;  the 
man  glanced  quickly,  questioningly,  at  the  woman; 
her  eyes  met  his  readily,  instantaneously,  and  she 
answered  the  question  his  had  put  by  stopping  short 
and  leaning  against  a  tree,  while  she  motioned  to  him 
to  do  the  same.  Evidently,  although  the  man  was  in 
the  lead,  the  woman  was  the  keener,  more  devising, 
and,  perhaps,  the  more  executive  in  details  than  her 
companion.  They  remained  together  and  they  re- 
mained silent  while  Conningsby  forged  ahead.  Their 
glances  followed  him,  and  their  ears  also;  they  were 

32 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

grateful  to  him ;  his  tracks  made  a  guide  for  them  to  a 
place  they  were  anxious  to  reach,  but  not  yet. 

To  the  first  roll  of  thunder  Judith  had  not  paid 
attention;  when  it  growled  a  bit  nearer,  she  slowly 
raised  herself  and  was  glad;  she  was  one  who  enjoyed 
storms  and  had  no  fear.  Besides,  there  was  now  a 
rift  of  azure  up  above  her  head,  and  through  the 
thickness  of  the  larches  there  slipped  a  golden  beam 
of  sunshine.  She  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings 
and  climbed  down  the  mossy  bank,  pinned  up  her 
skirts,  soft  muslin  stuffs,  and  stepped  into  the  cool 
and  pleasant  waters  that  plashed  and  whirled  over 
the  smooth  and  fissured  bed  of  rock.  She  waded  up 
and  down,  not  into  the  deepest  part  of  the  pool,  but 
skirting  the  edge  of  this,  and  looking  down -stream 
always  to  where  the  waters  fell  in  twenty  feet  of  sil- 
very cascade.  Then  the  thunder  sounded  out  like 
the  guns  of  the  Titans,  and  the  noise  of  it  crashed  up 
and  down  and  through  the  woods.  The  rain  fell  and 
beat  the  boughs  into  submission,  flattened  all  the  brush 
and  sent  the  birds  into  their  mysterious  hiding-places. 
It  drenched  Miss  Harriman  to  the  skin,  and  made  of  her 
in  her  clinging  white  muslins,  a  living  statue  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  swelling  brook,  only  her  dark  and 
half  falling  hair  marking  her  as  not  of  marble,  for  the 
flush  of  her  cheeks  and  the  scarlet  of  her  lips  were 
paled  into  white,  too,  by  the  savage  slaps  of  the  rain, 
the  hail,  and  the  wind.  The  wind  had  risen,  cracking 
branches  as  if  they  had  been  straws,  bending  grand  tree- 
boles  almost  to  the  snapping  point;  and  the  thunder 
crashed  it  back  in  answer  to  the  wind,  and  the  thicken- 
ing rain  responded  in  great  sheets  of  downpour,  but  still 
Judith  Harriman  stood  in  the  brook  joying  in  its  tempest. 

33 


THE    UNDEFILED 

Conningsby  found  her  there,  laughing  quickly  when 
she  beheld  him,  and  bending  tremulously  in  virginal 
shame  that  any  one  should  see  her  so. 

He  stood  still  suddenly  when  he  saw  her;  he  was 
dazzled  by  the  beautiful  whiteness  and  the  delicious 
curves  and  the  perfect  roundness  and  symmetry  of 
her  figure  as  the  dripping  white  muslin  outlined  all 
her  loveliness.  Her  eyes  shone,  and  then  the  red  blood 
came  back  into  her  face. 

"Ah,"  Conningsby  said,  almost  under  his  breath,  as 
he  stood  not  four  feet  from  her  on  the  bank,  "you  are 
wonderful." 

"I  expect  so,"  she  laughed,  her  laugh  lost  in  a 
terrific  peal  of  thunder,  while  Conningsby  stretched 
out  his  hands  and  said: 

"Come,  come,  I  must  take  you  home.  Won't  you 
come  with  me?"  There  was  an  insistent  pleading  in 
his  voice,  which  she  heard  very  well  now,  because  the 
thunder  had  rolled  away  to  the  southward;  it  was 
almost  dark,  relieved  now  and  then  by  the  flashings  of 
the  sheet-lightning,  and  still  the  rain  fell  in  torrents 
upon  them  both. 

"No,"  the  girl  laughed  back  at  him,  shaking  her 
head.  "  It  is  glorious.  I  like  it.  I  have  no  fear. 
Why  did  you  come  out  here  if  you  are  afraid  or  dis- 
like it?" 

"Afraid,"  he  repeated,  in  surprise.  "Not  I.  I  came 
to  find  you.  I  saw  you  start.  When  the  storm  began 
I  sprang  up  to  go  to  your  help." 

"I  need  no  help." 

"You  do!  Of  course,  you  do.  I  must  lift  you  out 
of  the  waters  and  try  to  wring  your  clothes  out  and 
help  you  home." 

34 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

"Home!"  echoed  Miss  Harriman,  in  amiable  de- 
rision of  the  Gray  Fox  Inn. 

"Do  you  think  I  mean  the  Inn  when  I  say  home?" 
he  asked,  while  the  rain  pelted  down  in  a  fine  curtain 
between  them. 

She  nodded,  laughing  all  the  time  like  -a  nymph  or 
some  only  half-human  creature  who,  perhaps,  only 
half  understood,  or  intended  only  to  half  understand, 
the  thrill  of  his  undertone. 

"Then,"  Conningsby  said,  coming  nearer  to  her, 
standing  on  the  same  ledge  of  rock  with  her  where 
the  waters  surged  and  boiled  in  fury,  while  the  thunder 
again  boomed  out  of  the  south  and  the  lightning  played 
incessantly,  "then  I  must  tell  you  I  do  not.  I  mean 
home  here  in  my  arms.  I  love  you."  He  caught  at 
her  hand  and  held  it  a  prisoner. 

She  glanced  up,  for  he  was  a  tall  man.  Their  eyes 
met.  and  the  fire  of  his  and  the  ice  of  hers  commingled. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  whispered,  putting  his  arm 
round  the  soaked  and  dripping  figure  of  the  girl. 

She  shook  her  head  and  whispered,  "No,"  very 
quietly  and  gently. 

"But  you  may.  I  can  teach  you;  will  you — you 
will — let  me  try?"  And  the  passionate  entreaty  of  his 
tones  seemed  to  chime  in  with  the  reverberating  crash 
of  the  thunder. 

Her  lips  moved,  but  he  could  not  hear  what  she 
said,  no  one  could  hear  anything  but  the  awful  reso- 
nance of  the  storm,  for  then  it  broke  out  with  a  re- 
doubled fury  and  an  appalling  vehemence.  Had  it 
been  still,  these  two  must  have  heard  the  other  two, 
for  they  were  not  far  away.  They  had  crept  with  the 
storm,  moving  only  when  it  was  loudest,  thus  running 

35 


THE  UNDEFILED 

no  risk  of  being  heard,  and  they  were  now,  both  drench- 
ed and  heavy  with  the  water,  lying  low  against  the 
earth,  waiting,  not  ten  paces  from  the  others. 

"  I  can't  hear  what  you  say,"  Conningsby  murmured, 
when  there  was  an  interlude. 

"It's  just  as  well,"  was  her  response,  but  she  had 
not  shrunk  from  his  touch.  There  was  an  infinite 
comfort  to  him  in  this  fact.  There  was  also,  it  might 
have  seemed,  some  comfort  or  solace  or  refuge  in  it  to 
her — her  acquiescence  in  it  being  an  unconscious 
tribute  to  its  worth  to  her. 

"You  will  not  send  me  away  from  you?" 

"I  think  I  will,"  she  laughed  a  little.  "Send  you 
back  to  the  house  to  fetch  me  a  cloak — my  rain-coat  is 
hanging  in  the  front  hall  on  the  rack.  I  don't  care  to 
go  back  in  just  this  plight  before  an  admiring  audi- 
ence of  fifty  odd." 

"  No,"  he  cried,  hastily,  "certainly  not."  He  would 
not  have  the  eyes  of  others  feast  upon  her  perfect 
loveliness. 

"You  will  go  and  bring  it?  It's  horrid  of  me  to 
make  you,  but — " 

"Am  I  not  the  one  to  do  any  and  everything  for 
you  henceforth?"  he  inquired  with  great  tenderness. 

"Are  you?"  she  murmured,  not  withdrawing  from 
his  closer  fold. 

"Yes,"  Conningsby  said,  with  an  overmastering 
quiver  in  his  caressing  voice  as  his  lips  sought  hers. 

She  started  back  away  from  him.  Was  it  the  action 
of  repulsion,  distaste,  or  did  she  in  some  occult  fashion 
feel  the  glint  of  those  two  pairs  of  eyes  which  were 
fastened  upon  her  from  their  murky  ambush  beneath 
the  overhanging  boughs  of  the  larches  ? 

36 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

"My  love,  my  princess,  my  lady,,  don't  shrink  from 
me!  I  know  best.  I  know  you  will  love  me,  that  I 
am  to  be  your  possessor,  protector,  husband — that 
you  are  to  be  mine,  mine!"  He  strained  her  to  his 
heart  in  an  embrace  that  was  tremendously  compel- 
ling, it  was  even  sweet  to  her;  it  made  her  glad,  it 
gave  her  something  to  rely  on,  and  she  had  been  very 
lonely  and  needy. 

They  were  silent,  together  standing  in  the  midst  of 
the  seething  flood,  for  the  brook  had  grown  to  be  a 
river  of  rushing  force,  one  of  its  banks  now  five  rods 
and  more  away  from  their  reach,  while  the  other,  it  is 
true,  was  but  a  few  steps  removed.  Conningsby  looked 
at  her,  turned  her  face  up  to  the  light  that  now  came 
glinting  waveringly  between  the  ragged  and  still  angry 
clouds. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  hungry,  inarticulate 
gasp.  "  But  you  are  the  loveliest,  holiest,  most  en- 
chanting of  the  marvellous  works  of  God." 

She  looked  down.     She  did  not  speak. 

"Now,"  he  went  on,  "will  you  stop  here  or  come  on 
the  bank  while  I  run  to  the  house  for  the  rain-coat?" 
Conningsby  now  smiled. 

"I'll  stop  here." 

"You  are  not  afraid?"  anxiously. 

"Of  what?"  she  asked,  and  turned  her  gaze  by 
some  curious  impulse  directly  towards  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  other  two. 

He  said:  "The  loneliness?"  She  shook  her  head, 
her  eyes  dancing  with  the  strange  mirthfulness  that 
was  never  absent  from  them  for  very  long  at  a  time. 

"  I  am  never  lonely.  And  here  it  is  beautiful,  beau- 
tiful. Go." 

37 


THE  UNDEF1LED 

"I  will  be  gone  but  a  very  little  time." 
"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  he  went  away  from  her; 
then  she  stood  still,  looking  down  watching  the  foam 
and  splash  of  the  rapids  as  they  broke  and  played 
about  her  feet.  She  did  not  want  to  leave  the  water, 
it  was  all  a  joy  to  her,  the  hurry  of  it,  as  it  sped  on 
headlong  to  its  great  tumble  at  the  cascade  beyond; 
the  skies  grew  a  little  darker,  the  storm  rumbled  a  bit 
yet,  it  was  eerie  and  strange  and  enticingly  sympa- 
thetic to  her  mood  of  mind,  which  was  a  chaos  of 
sweet  and  bitter,  an  indistinct  tangle  of  peace  and 
warfare,  memory  and  rest. 

For  the  space  of  possibly  two  minutes  by  the  clock 
the  two  in  hiding  watched  this  naiad  at  her  play, 
watched  the  little  feet  splashing  in  the  froth  of  the 
beaten  brook,  the  smiles  on  her  lips,  the  curious  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes ;  their  own  four  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  her  as  the  stare  of  cats  is  fixed  on  prey  before 
they  pounce.  They  then  exchanged  a  covert  glance, 
the  woman  nodded  and  pulled  at  the  man's  coat- 
sleeve.  He  took  off  his  coat.  She  took  a  handkerchief 
from  her  pocket  and  a  small  phial,  tipped  the  phial 
with  its  dark-colored  liquid,  saturated  the  handker- 
chief, being  careful  to  keep  it  away  from  her  own  face, 
and  then,  like  a  couple  of  snakes,  they  disengaged 
themselves  from  the  impediment  of  the  torn  branches, 
slipped  to  the  mossy  bank,  slid  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  They  were  on  the  side  nearest  to  the  ledge 
Judith  Harriman  stood  upon.  The  man  made  a  deft 
bound  to  her,  seized  her  in  his  arms;  the  woman,  on 
the  spot  as  quickly  as  her  companion,  clapped  the 
wet  handkerchief  over  the  victim's  face.  There  was 
only  a  heavy  gasp  from  the  throttled  girl  as  the  man 

38 


WHAT  THE  TROUBLE-WAGON  TOOK  AWAY 

rolled  his  coat  around  her,  the  woman  helping  him. 
They  plunged  into  the  long  woods  at  the  opposite  side 
from  that  which  had  been  taken  by  Conningsby,  bear- 
ing their  unconscious  and  dripping  burden  with  them. 
In  less  than  eight  minutes  the  whir  of  an  automobile 
was  distinctly  heard;  it  came  to  a  stop  with  a  jerk  at 
a  turn  of  the  highway,  where  the  long  woods  edged  up 
to  the  village  of  Fairfield.  It  had  been  running  up 
and  down  there  all  during  the  storm  unobserved,  be- 
cause no  one  had  ventured  abroad  in  such  a  tempest. 
The  two  with  the  burden  made  a  dash  from  the 
thicket  to  the  machine,  the  chauffeur  jumped  from 
his  seat,  opened  the  small  door  of  the  closely  covered 
tonneau,  the  bearer  of  the  burden  half  threw,  half 
pushed  the  burden  inside,  got  in  himself,  the  woman 
followed,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  big  trouble- wagon 
(as  the  villagers  called  them),  was  whizzing  down  the 
turnpike  at  a  forty -miles -an-hour  clip,  scattering  mud 
puddles  at  every  turn  of  the  wheels,  sweeping  past 
the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  where  all  the  boarders  were  now 
assembled  on  the  porch  to  view  the  trees  that  the 
whirlwind  had  thrashed  to  the  earth,  uttering  a  grew- 
some  and  diabolical  shriek  of  warning  as  it  flew  by 
Conningsby  on  his  hurried  way  back  to  Judith  Harri- 
man  with  the  rain-coat  over  his  arm. 


IV 

BEHIND    THE    EBONY    BED 

IT  was  a  hotel  room.  Of  that  she  was  sure.  It 
was  a  hotel  in  a  great  city,  because  she  could 
hear  the  perpetual  hum  and  dull  roar  of  intense,  con- 
gested life  all  about  her  outside  of  the  windows ;  there 
were  two  of  these,  with  closed  shutters ;  new  padlocked 
bolts  were  on  the  shutters,  so  that  she  could  not  open 
them ;  the  electric  lights  were  half  of  them  turned  on 
in  the  chandelier;  she  was  completely  dressed  in  new, 
dry  garments,  in  a  pretty  wrapper;  her  hair  was  still 
damp,  and,  while  it  had  evidently  been  combed,  it 
hung  in  clinging  masses  all  about  her. 

Her  own  discarded  clothes  were  spread  out  on 
chairs  to  dry.  She  beheld  them  with  a  pained  and 
shameful  flush.  Who?  She  sprang  to  her  feet  from 
the  couch  on  which  she  found  herself  lying,  and  with 
a  stare  of  horror  looked  for  the  bell  -  buttons.  They 
had  been  removed.  She  grasped  the  door-knob;  it 
turned  easily,  but  the  door  was  locked  evidently  from 
the  outside;  there  was  no  key;  she  beheld  the  pad- 
locked-window  blinds;  she  fell  on  her  knees;  then  rose 
and  walked  about,  inspecting  every  item  in  the  large, 
handsomely. furnished  room.  The  towels!  Of  course, 
they  would  have  the  name  of  the  hotel  in  their 
damask;  but  no,  these  towels  were  plain,  unmarked 

40 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

in  any  way.  The  usual  hotel  regulations  on  the  door  ? 
They  had  been  torn  down.  She  opened  the  drawers 
of  the  dressing-table;  a  small  assortment  of  perfumes, 
powders,  essences,  combs,  and  brushes  met  her  gaze. 
She  opened  the  chiffonier,  there  was  a  collection  of 
pretty  lingerie  of  all  sorts.  The  wardrobe ;  several  cos- 
tumes, a  coat,  a  wrap,  a  hat,  some  shoes  were  in  it. 
She  crossed  back  to  the  dressing-table  and  stared  in 
the  mirror. 

Was  this  pale,  haggard  face,  with  the  deep,  dark 
circles  around  the  eyes,  hers  ?  Was  this  the  twentieth 
century  ?  Was  this  to-day  or  to-morrow  ?  How  long 
was  it  since  she  had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  brook 
at  Fairfield  looking  at  her  pretty  feet  and  happily  await- 
ing Conningsby's  return  with  her  rain-coat?  Where 
was  she?  Who  was  she,  in  these  strange,  new  clothes, 
bought  for  her  by  whom  ? 

The  Duke  de  Montresor,  of  course.  Savor  as  it 
might  of  the  Middle  Ages,  Miss  Harriman  knew  that 
his  Grace  had  been  as  good,  or  as  bad,  as  his  ducal 
word,  and  that  "the  force"  had  been  brought  into 
active  play.  The  moment  the  girl  actually  realized 
this  she  rushed  to  the  door,  and  made  up  her  little  fist 
to  pound  upon  it;  then  something  arrested  her.  She 
knew  the  Duke  de  Montresor  very  well  indeed.  She 
felt  sure  that  he  had  covered  every  possible  contin- 
gency, and  that  if  she  banged  down  that  door  it 
would  be  more  than  likely  to  insure  for  her  a  more 
safely  guarded  prison.  She  came  away,  therefore,  from 
the  door  and  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  the  room  in 
a  rocking-chair.  She  now  observed  that  in  one  cor- 
ner there  stood  a  table  with  a  covered  tray  upon  it. 
She  hastily  snatched  up  the  napkin,  hoping  against 


THE  UNDEFILED 

hope  to  find  the  hotel  name  in  the  weave,  on  the  sil- 
ver things  laid  there  with  the  dainty  food  and  drink. 
No,  there  was  no  clew;  the  napkins  and  forks  and 
spoons  were  too  clearly  new  and  aforethought.  She 
could  not  eat;  she  therefore  sat  down  again.  She 
heard  doors  closing  on  the  corridor,  keys  clicking  in 
locks,  footsteps  thudding  hastily  over  thickly  carpet- 
ed floors.  A  clock  on  the  mantel  told  nearly  eight 
o'clock.  Was  it  morning  or  night  ?  How  long  had  she 
been  here?  Over  there  at  the  back  of  the  room  op- 
posite the  windows  was  a  bed,  a  folding  apparatus, 
very  luxurious  and  handsome,  of  ebony  and  gilt,  with 
a  tall,  heavy,  upstanding  back;  the  bed  was  let  down 
and  the  coverlet  turned,  the  pillows  arranged ;  yes,  it 
must  be  night. 

She  almost  laughed  to  herself;  it  was  such  an  ab- 
surd, unlikely  thing  to  happen  in  this  year  of  grace, 
and  yet  it  had  happened.  Here  she  was,  impotent, 
trapped,  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  who  had  promised 
her  just  such  an  experience  if  she  persisted  in  refusing 
to  comply  with  his  demands.  Was  she  sorry  that  she 
had  refused  ?  By  no  means.  On  the  contrary,  timid 
as  she  was  in  many  respects,  Miss  Harriman  was  one 
of  those  anomalous  creatures  whose  spirits  rose  to 
any  occasion  she  had  ever  yet  been  brought  face  to 
face  with.  Although  there  undoubtedly  was  a  kind  of 
terror  tugging  at  her  heart-strings,  there  as  certainly 
was  also  an  offsetting  exhilaration  which  spoke  of  red- 
blue,  imperial  blood,  a  dauntless  courage,  and  a  strain 
of  fatalism  as  well. 

As  she  sat  there  she  presently  heard  voices,  two 
voices,  men's,  coming  from  the  direction  behind  the 
tall  and  magnificent  head-board  of  the  ebony  folding- 

42 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

bed.  These  voices,  muffled  to  a  great  extent  by  the 
heavy  piece  of  furniture  and  the  wall,  yet  had  a  half- 
familiar  ring  in  Judith  Harriman's  ears.  The  famil- 
iarity, however,  did  not  impress  or  interest  her;  the 
bald,  fine  fact  that  she  could  hear  human  voices,  and 
might  reasonably  expect  to  be  heard  by  the  posses- 
sors of  these  voices  in  turn,  was  the  thing  that  struck 
her.  She  rose  and  crossed  to  the  ebony  bed,  she  tried 
to  peer  behind  it,  but  could  not  see.  She  tried  to 
move  it,  for  the  voices  were  now  much  more  plainly  to 
be  heard ;  she  surmised  a  possible  door,  and  her  color 
rose.  She  tried  to  move  the  ebony  bed  away,  but 
could  not;  she  then  pushed  it  gently,  closed  it  up,  dis- 
playing a  handsome  mirror  as  it  swung  into  posi- 
tion; then  she  tried  to  move  it  again,  and  succeeded; 
moved  it  slowly  away  from  the  wall,  and  revealed  to 
herself  a  door,  bolted  on  her  side.  She  stooped  and 
peered  at  the  keyhole;  the  key  was  in  the  lock  on  the 
other  side!  She  almost  laughed  aloud.  She  had 
much  faith.  She  was  ordinately  full  of  expedients. 
She  ran  to  the  wardrobe,  slipped  out  of  the  rose- 
colored  wrapper  and  into  one  of  the  ready-made 
gowns,  the  coat,  the  hat,  the  shoes  which  did  not  fit. 
But  what  matter?  They  would  doubtless  stay  on. 
She  cast  one  glance  of  pained  terror  at  the  door  of  the 
room  when  she  thought  she  heard  a  sound  outside  of 
it;  but  no  one  came.  Then  she  turned  out  all  the 
lights,  remarking,  too,  in  the  little  lobby  that  the  tele- 
phone had  been  removed.  Then,  equipped  with  a 
small  bag  and  a  handkerchief  from  the  supply  in  the 
dressing-table  drawer,  even  stopping  to  dash  some  pow- 
der on  her  face,  some  perfume  on  her  hair  as  she  had 
quickly  coiled  it  on  top  of  her  head,  to  pin  on  the  veil 
4  43 


THE  UNDEFILED 

— a  very  thick  blue  one  which  she  found  there — Judith 
stepped  to  the  door  behind  the  ebony  bed  and  knocked, 
so  timidly,  with  such  an  accession  of  warm  blood  to 
her  cheeks  and  throat  and  forehead  as  she  had  never 
felt  before.  No  one  heard  her.  She  paused,  looked 
at  her  hand;  it  trembled  as  it  had  never  trembled  in 
her  life.  She  knew  she  could  not  be  heard  by  knock- 
ing with  that  hand,  as  presumably  the  occupants  of 
the  next  room  would  have  their  windows  open,  and 
minor  sounds  would  be  swallowed  up  in  the  roar  of 
the  outside  noises. 

She  went  back  to  the  dressing  -  table  to  get  the 
brush.  It  was  of  wood,  and  would  resound  sharply. 
Then  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  door-knob.  With  the 
deftness  of  a  sprite,  as  the  key  was  being  toilsomely 
fitted  into  the  lock,  she  pulled  down  the  bed  again, 
jumped  in,  snatched  off  the  hat  and  veil,  covered 
them  and  herself  entirely  with  the  blankets,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  the  door  of  the  room  opened. 

A  voice  she  had  never  heard  before  said: 

"The  lights  are  out." 

*'Is  she  asleep?"  a  man's  voice  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  She  is  in  bed,"  the  voice  of  a 
woman  replied,  adding:  "I  won't  go  in,  for,  if  she 
wakens,  she  may  only  scream,  and  we  want  no  more 
disturbance  than  is  necessary." 

"O.  K.,"  answered  the  man.  "I'll  tell  him  she's 
all  right." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  woman.  "Nonsense  for  him 
to  expect  me  to  stay  with  her  all  night." 

"Sure,"  fumbling  at  the  knob.  "We  can  go  to  the 
show,  all  right,  and  he'll  never  know  the  difference. 
She  couldn't  get  away  if  she  knew  how  to  try  even." 

44 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

"No.  Come  on.  Easy  with  that  bloomin'  key;  it 
rasps." 

They  went  away.  She  sprang  up.  Her  terror  now 
was  that  the  people  in  the  adjoining  room  might  de- 
part before  she  had  time  to  gain  their  attention. 
This  fear  was  doubled  as  now  she  knew  that  it  was 
evening  and  about  the  hour  for  people  to  be  going  to 
the  theatres.  She  hurried  on  the  hat  and  veil,  picked 
up  the  hair-brush,  and  then  pushed  up  the  ebony  bed 
once  more.  She  rapped  smartly,  but  trembling  as  she 
did  it,  her  legs  shaking  under  her,  hej  lips  quivering. 

"Come  in!"  sang  out  a  man's  voice,  somewhat  an- 
noyed, evidently,  at  the  interruption  to  his  talk. 

Judith  rapped  again,  not  so  sharply.  The  queer 
and  dreadful  possibilities  of  her  situation  suddenly 
forced  themselves  coldly  upon  her  and  made  her  quail. 

As  the  man's  voice  again  said  "Come  in!"  in  a 
vexed  way,  adding,  as  no  door  opened  and  no  one 
came  in,  "Some  mistake,  I  suppose.  Well,  as  I  was 
saying — "  Miss  Harriman  retreated,  flung  the  hair- 
brush on  the  couch,  and  herself  beside  it. 

If  she  could  but  be  sure  that  there  was  a  woman  on 
the  other  side  of  that  door  on  which  she  had  knocked ; 
if— if— 

While  she  was  bewailing  some  days  of  her  past, 
while  tears  were  filling  and  blinding  her  eyes,  the  two 
men  in  the  adjoining  room  were  talking  together  as 
men  will  who  have  not  seen  one  another  in  some  long 
time,  men  who  love  each  other,  and  have  been  chums 
in  some  overpast  but  well  and  dearly  remembered  time, 

"Fairfield,  you  say,  is  seventy  miles  from  town?" 

Buck  Grant,  for  it  was  he,  nodded. 

"Yes,  seventy -five,  to  be  accurate." 

45 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"You  like  it?" 

The  minister  inclined  his  head.  "Yes,  I  like  my 
work;  it  excites  me  as  much  as  breaking  broncos  ever 
did." 

"Not  married?  Now  that  surprises  me,  old  fellow. 
In  the  days  when  we  were  on  the  plains  together,  a 
home  with  a  girl  in  it  was  always  your  dream,  when 
we  lay  in  tents  and  were  soaked  and  frozen,  or  burn- 
ing up,  according  to  the  season  of  the  year — always  a 
home  with  a  girl  in  it." 

Buck  said:  "I've  met  the  girl  all  right." 

The  other  man  looked  up  quickly,  alertly,  with 
great  interest  and  sympathy. 

"Not  for  mine,"  Buck  responded  to  his  friend's 
glance,  as  he  smiled  and  sighed. 

The  other  man  nodded  his  head  and  bit  his  lips. 
"I  see,"  he  said.  "That's  bad,  bad." 

"You?"  queried  Buck. 

"No  one;  at  least,"  he  paused  to  relight  his  cigar 
in  a  leisurely  way,  "  I  once  saw  a  girl,  spoke  a  few  words 
to  her,  and  then  lost  track  of  her  entirely,  who — " 

"Filled  the  bill?"  Buck  finished,  knocking  the  ash 
from  his  own  Havana. 

"Yes,  she  did.  Wonderful,  too,  how  a  fellow 
knows  it  on  sight.  Met  that  girl  in  France  on  a 
country  road." 

"A  French  girl?"     Buck's  brows  contracted  a  bit. 

"No,  American,  I  judge." 

"American  girl's  good  enough  for  me.  Now,"  he 
rose,  "I'm  off." 

"No!" 

"Yes.  Must  be  back  in  Fairfield  to-night.  Early 
service  to-morrow  morning.  Glad  you  'phoned  me 

46 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

the  day  you  arrived.     Will  you  come  out  there  and 
make  me  a  visit  and  meet  the  girl?" 

"Try  to.  But  I  want  you  here  with  me  often,  often. 
I'm  settling  here  for  a  while,  anyway." 

"Good,  I  know;  so-long.  Come  up  for  Sunday,  will 
you?" 

"Yes — so-long,  old  man." 

Buck  Grant  went  away,  slamming  the  door  forcibly 
after  him.  This  sound  roused  Miss  Harriman  from 
tears  to  the  fact  that,  perhaps  she  had  lost  her  only 
chance,  meagre  as  it  might  be,  of  escape. 

She  darted  to  the  dividing  door  and  gave  a  knock 
with  the  brush  and  all  her  force. 

"Come  in!"  the  voice  said,  loudly. 

"I  can't,"  she  replied,  while  her  own  voice  quivered. 
"I'm  at  this  door,  the  one  between  these  two  rooms. 
Is  there,  pardon  me,  any  woman  in  there?  If  there 
is,  will  she  not  come  and  let  me  speak  to  her,  please?" 

The  pleading  in  her  tear-shaken  words  was  unmis- 
takable. The  occupant  of  the  room  crossed  over 
hastily,  mystified,  of  course,  but  not  disagreeably  so. 
There  was  something  in  the  tone  which  vaguely  re- 
minded him  of  something  in  the  past,  just  what  he 
could  not  have  told. 

"There  is  no  woman  here,  but  if  there  is  anything  a 
man  can  do  for  you,  I  am  at  your  service.  What  is 
the  trouble?" 

"It's  an  almost  incredible  story,"  she  answered, 
"but  I've  been  kidnapped.  When  I  regained  con- 
sciousness— I  presume  I  was  drugged — I  found  myself 
here,  alone.  I  have  a  right  to  my  freedom.  I  am  of 
age.  I  take  care  of  myself.  I  am  able  to.  I  am  sane 
and  well.  Will  you  help  me  to  get  away?" 

47 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"But,  my  dear  madam,  kidnapping  is  a  crime. 
Whoever  did  it  can  be  arrested,  and  sent  to  prison. 
Let  me  simply  ring  up  the  central  office  for  detectives. 
Shall  I  ?" 

"No!  no!  please  don't  do  that.  The  publicity 
would  be  dreadful  to  me.  It  is  unnecessary." 

"Won't  you  'phone  down-stairs?"  he  suggested. 
"Would  it  not  be  better  than  the  other  way?"  Not 
knowing  precisely  what  the  other  way  would  be,  but 
feeling  instinctively  jealous  of  the  remark  to  be  occa- 
sioned for  her,  whoever  she  was,  by  a  stranger's 
offices. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Besides,  the  bell-buttons,  the 
'phone,  everything,  has  been  removed  from  this  room." 
The  man  uttered  a  low  whistle,  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  concluded  he  had  a  lunatic  for  neighbor. 
Then,  as  quickly,  this  was  put  out  of  his  thoughts; 
the  sane  and  perfect  quality  of  her  voice — her  reminis- 
cent, lovely  voice — completely  dissipated  the  idea  of 
madness,  or  hysteria  even,  in  any  form. 

She  went  on:  "The  window-shutters  even  are  pad- 
locked. I  don't  know  where  I  am;  the  linen  is  un- 
marked, so  are  the  silver  things  to  eat  with.  Please, 
please,  help  me.  It  will  not  hurt  you ;  you  need  never 
know  who  I  am,  or  even  see  me." 

"Command  me,"  he  said,  leaning  against  the  door. 
He  detected  the  faint  violet  perfume  at  the  crack;  he 
felt  through  the  insensate  boards  the  mystical  pres- 
ence of  a  perhaps  daring  but  surely  a  picturesque  and 
fascinating  woman. 

"The  bolt  is  on  this  side,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
permit  me  to  slip  it  back?" 

"Do  so,"  he  answered. 

48 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

"Will  you  turn  the  key?     It  is  on  yours." 

"I  will."     He  turned  it  immediately. 

She  pushed  back  the  bolt. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  city  or  town  I  am  in,  please  ?" 

"New  York." 

"Oh!  Is  it  daytime?  No,  I  am  almost  sure  that 
it  is  evening." 

"It  is  quarter  before  nine  at  night." 

"Thank  you.  Now  if  you  will  open  the  door  of 
your  room  giving  on  the  hall,  and  turn  your  back  to 
this  one,  I  can  pass  out." 

"Can't  I  notify  your  friends?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"But  a  woman  to  start  out  alone  at  night — and  is 
there  no  danger  of  pursuit?" 

"None  to-night,  I  think.  The  people  hired  to  do  it 
have  been  in  and  found  me,  as  they  supposed,  asleep. 
They  have  gone  to  some  theatre." 

"But  your  father,  mother,  family?"  he  persisted, 
for  there  was  a  peculiar  impulse'  in  him  to  protect  this 
girl.  He  was  sure  she  was  but  a  girl,  he  judged,  from 
the  almost  childish  cadence  that  crept  into  her  voice 
now  and  again. 

"I  have  no  father,  no  family.  I  must  do  it  all 
alone.  What  floor  is  this?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"The  second  only." 

"Then  if  this  is  only  the  second  story  I  need  not 
take  the  lift.  I  can  walk  down  without  occasioning 
remark  if  you  will  tell  me  which  way  the  nearest  stair- 
case lies." 

"As  you  go  out  the  door  turn  to  your  right,  then 
the  first  turn  to  the  left  there  is  a  staircase;  it  leads 
you  down  past  the  ballroom  and  so  to  the  street," 

49 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Thank  you  again.     You  are  very  good." 

"  Not  at  all.  I  only  wish  I  could  serve  you  further. 
Had  you  not  better  allow  me  to  see  you  down,  and 
take  you  wherever  you  may  wish  to  go  in  an  electric  ? 
I  would  ride  outside  with  the  chauffeur,  of  course." 

"No!  Oh,  how  good!  how  good!  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  saving  me  from." 

"Possibly  I  can  guess.  Very  well,  then,  since  you 
will  not  accept  anything,  tell  me  when  to  open  the 
door." 

"Now.  No!  one  moment!"  Miss  Harriman  hesi- 
tated, blushed  deeply,  for  she  was  in  desperate  straits. 
Then  she  spoke  bluntly,  more  bluntly  than  she  ever 
had  to  any  one,  so  bluntly  that  it  shocked  the  man  in 
the  adjoining  room  at  first. 

"Will  you  lend  me  a  little  money?" 

"Of  course  I  will!"  His  hand  went  to  his  pocket 
at  once. 

"Just  five  dollars;  no  more.  Lay  it  on  the  table  in 
there.  You  have  a  table,  I  suppose,  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  like  this  one?  Hotel  rooms  are  all  alike." 
She  spoke  in  a  business-like,  quiet  way. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "There  are  now  two  twos 
and  a  one  and  some  silver  on  the  table.  Please,  will 
you  not  need  more?" 

"No.  They  naturally  did  not  provide  me  with 
money,  although  they  did  with  clothes;  they  hope  to 
take  me  to  Europe,  I  think;  probably  to-morrow.  I 
will  leave  an  equivalent  for  the  money  you  are  good 
enough  to  lend  me  on  the  table;  also,  it  will  pay  in- 
terest on  the  amount." 

"You  must  not  do  that!"  He  spoke  in  an  imperi- 
ous, pained  way. 

5° 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

"Undoubtedly  I  must,"  was  her  reply.  "Now, 
again,  I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  express.  You  can 
say,  if  you  should  be  questioned,  that  you  have  seen 
no  one.  I  cannot  get  you  into  any  trouble." 

"What  was  up  against  this  door?"  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. "Something,  of  course,  concealed  it  from 
them." 

"A  big  folding-bed." 

"Ah!  When  you  have  gone  I  will  replace  it,  lock 
the  door,  throw  the  key  away,  go  out  and  keep  in 
evidence  down-stairs  all  night."  He  discovered  him- 
self to  be  profoundly  interested  in  this  woman,  eager 
to  help  her,  to  have  her  succeed;  more  than  eager  to 
behold  her,  not  with  the  eagerness  of  curiosity  or 
craving  of  adventure,  but  with  that  inexplicable 
eagerness  which  no  man  who  experiences  it  seeks  to 
unravel  at  the  moment  of  its  inception. 

"How  can  I  thank  you?  I  cannot.  But  some 
time  in  your  life  to  come,  perhaps  some  one  else  may 
thank  you  for  me,  by  doing  you  a  very,  very  good 
turn.  Now,  will  you  open  this  door  and  turn  your 
face  away?" 

She  held  her  own  hand  away,  uplifted  from  the 
knob;  his  turned  it  and  set  the  door  half  open;  she 
heard  him  walk  across  the  room,  the  electrics  went 
down,  the  place  was  in  darkness  save  for  the  light 
which  came  in  over  the  transom.  She  did  not  raise 
her  eyes,  but  crossed  quickly  to  the  centre-table;  she 
could  see  well  enough  for  all  her  purposes;  she  took 
up  the  money  and  put  it  in  her  bag ;  she  then  slipped  a 
ring,  a  pretty  thing  of  turquoises  and  small  diamonds, 
from  her  finger,  and  laid  it  where  the  bills  and  change 
had  been. 


THE  UNDEFILED 

He  heard  the  jingle  of  the  bauble  on  the  ormolu  top 
of  the  table.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  turn 
around;  this  was  too  much.  In  the  same  instant  it 
appeared  to  the  girl  that  she  must  glance  over  to 
where  she  knew  he  stood.  At  that  moment  the  elec- 
trics flashed  up  very  high  in  the  hall — it  was  an  invita- 
tion that  each  noted  —  then  down  went  the  power 
again.  Their  two  hearts  throbbed,  each  with  the 
faint  and  unplaced  remembrance  of  a  something  in 
their  pasts,  with  the  peculiar  position,  with  the  un- 
explained mystery  of  foreknowledge,  the  almost  irre- 
sistible deliciousness  of  nearness. 

He  did  speak  in  a  whisper.  "May  I  not  see  you?" 
The  tone  was  pleading  and  full  of  a  certain  caressing 
quality. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  she  whispered  back.  "It  is  all 
too  dreadful  to  be  made  worse  by  giving  you  the 
recollection  of  my  face.  I  wish  you  to  forget  it  all — 
all  save  that  you  were  good  to  some  one  who  needed 
it." 

"  But  the  rest  of  it  ?  I  fear  for  you  until  you  reach 
your  home."  There  was  absolute  alarm  in  his  speech, 
the  kind  of  alarm  a  man  might  experience,  say,  for  the 
woman  he  loved. 

"You  must  not,"  she  answered,  gently.  "Good- 
bye," and  then  he  heard  the  door  softly  close.  He 
turned  now,  struck  up  the  lights,  looked  down  at 
her  ring,  took  it  and  essayed  to  slip  it  over  his  own 
little  ringer;  it  was  too  small  for  that.  Then  he  at- 
tached it  to  his  watch-chain  and  smiled  with  happi- 
ness, he  fancied  it  a  link  between  them,  and  that  he 
should  see  her  again,  perhaps  soon.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  regulate  the  ebony  bed  and  the  door  be- 

52 


BEHIND  THE  EBONY  BED 

tween  the  rooms,  the  key,  and  so  forth.  He  felt  a 
nearly  ungovernable  desire  to  open  his  door  and  look 
out  at  her,  to  follow  her  by  stealth:  but  this  he  re- 
sisted, and  not  unti^  fifteen  minutes  after  Miss  Harri- 
man's  departure  from  his  room  did  he  leave  it  and  go 
down-stairs.  He  walked  down  also,  taking  a  foolish 
pleasure  in  doing  so,  just  because  this  mysterious 
woman  had  done  it  before  him.  He  remained  about 
the  office  and  corridors  for  a  few  minutes,  when,  with 
quiet  ostentation,  he  ordered  a  cab,  and  told  the  man 
to  take  him  up-town. 


A    PRINCB    OF    SILENCE 

THE  occupant  of  number  nineteen  returned  to  his 
hotel  about  eight  the  following  morning,  in  his 
hands  most  of  the  daily  papers,  which  he  hastily 
scanned,  expecting  to  find  flaming  head-lines  of  the  es- 
cape from  the  hotel  on  the  night  previous — of  whom  ? 
He  knew  not.  But  there  was  not  even  an  item  that 
could  be  construed  into  any  such  thing.  The  Duke 
de  Montre'sor  was  indeed  an  adept  in  dissimulation, 
nor  had  he  been  attached  to  the  Embassy  at  Con- 
stantinople for  nothing.  With  daring  grace  and  ad- 
mirable ease,  since  his  demands  were  paid  for,  cash  in 
advance,  he  had  been  able  to  have  the  room  he  in- 
tended for  Miss  Harriman  divested  of  bells,  telephone 
and  house  linen ;  to  substitute  plain  towels  and  napery ; 
to  padlock  the  shutters,  and  to  insure  his  captive 
against  any  assistance,  even  should  she  see  fit  to 
shriek.  The  page-boys  and  other  attendants  had 
been  warned  that  the  lady  in  number  seventeen  was 
off  her  head  temporarily,  not  dangerously,  and  was 
being  taken  by  her  brother  the  next  day  to  her  mother 
in  France.  They  were  instructed,  as  were  other  em- 
ployees of  the  house,  to  impart  this  information  to 
any  guests  who  might  possibly  become  excited  should 
the  young  lady  make  an  outcry  or  attempt  to  call  as- 

54 


A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 

sistance.  Money  judiciously  spent  by  a  man  of  the 
Duke's  calibre,  training,  and  ingenuity  can  accomplish 
wonders  and  command  immunity  from  interference. 

The  Duke,  however,  sincerely  loved  Miss  Harriman, 
in  strict  accordance,  of  course,  with  his  class  and 
character.  Having  learned  from  the  two  detectives 
whom  he  had  employed,  and  whom  he  had  waylaid  as 
they  quitted  Miss  Harriman 's  room,  that  the  captive 
rested  quietly,  his  Grace  asked  for  the  key  of  the 
room,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  At  the  same  moment 
he  unconsciously  chimed  in  with  the  intentions  of 
these  two  worthies  by  recommending  them  to  go  to 
the  theatre,  as  he  himself  would  watch  over  the  wel- 
fare of  ^mademoiselle  his  sister,  for  a  couple  of  hours 
or  so.  The  Duke  was  full  of  expedients,  and  of  a  mind 
to  provide  himself  with  a  second  or  even  a  third  hold 
upon  his  prize.  He  imagined  that  a  call  from  him 
might  conduce  to  the  furthering  of  his  wishes,  which 
is,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  not  unusual  attitude  of 
most  men  in  love. 

Montresor,  then,  the  previous  evening,  was  let  out  of 
the  lift  at  the  second  floor,  and  proceeded  to  number 
seventeen.  He  knocked  several  times,  but  no  answer 
coming,  he  presently  fitted  the  key,  and,  by  a  singular 
chance,  walked  cautiously  into  the  darkened  room  ex- 
actly as  the  tenant  of  number  nineteen  left  his.  His 
Grace,  having  been  in  this  room  before  when  superin- 
tending its  preparation  for  Miss  Harriman,  stepped 
lightly  and  with  accustomed  ease  to  the  chandelier, 
turned  up  the  lights,  and  glanced  around.  The  couch 
was  unoccupied,  the  ebony  bed  was  folded  up  against 
the  wall,  not  a  chair  had  any  one  sitting  in  it,  the  floor 
was  guiltless  of  a  person.  In  brief,  he  saw  at  once 

55 


THE  UNDEFILED 

that  the  prisoner  had  fled.  But  how?  The  two  de- 
tectives had  assured  him  not  twenty  minutes  since 
that  they  had  just  left  their  charge  sleeping  here;  the 
lock  was  in  good  order,  the  windows  padlocked  as  he 
had  seen  them  the  day  previous.  He  went  to  the 
dressing-table,  looked  in  the  open  drawer,  smiled  at 
the  powder-puff  so  recently  and  evidently  in  commis- 
sion ;  at  the  brush ;  realized  that  the  veil  and  bag  were 
missing ;  went  to  the  wardrobe — observing  Miss  Harri- 
man's  still  damp  garments  spread  over  two  chairs  as 
he  crossed  —  found  that  a  costume,  coat,  hat,  and 
shoes  were  missing  from  the  collection  he  had  himself 
purchased  yesterday.  The  food,  he  noted,  was  un- 
touched, but  the  napery  and  towels,  which  he  also 
had  supplied,  he  did  not  fail  to  observe,  had  been 
handled. 

His  Grace  now  sat  down  and  tapped  his  boot-top 
ruminatingly  with  his  small,  gold-headed  cane.  With 
his  clear,  keen,  dark  eyes  he  surveyed  the  apartment, 
taking  in  the  transom,  which  he  measured  accurately 
enough ;  thence  his  gaze  flashed  to  the  ebony  bed. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  facile  Frenchman.  "There 
you  are!"  He  sprang  up,  and,  although  wholly  un- 
used to  this  article  of  furniture,  he  recognized  it,  and 
was  mentally  sure  that  behind  it  was  a  door.  He 
presently,  having  moved  the  bed,  saw  the  door,  ex- 
amined the  bolt  which  was  as  nearly  drawn  to  the 
socket  as  the  occupant  of  number  nineteen  had  been 
able  to  draw  it ;  saw  the  empty  keyhole,  listened  with 
his  ear  to  it,  looked  through  it,  saw  no  light;  tried  the 
knob,  could  not  open  the  door;  knocked,  there  was 
no  response.  He  then  went  down-stairs,  and  discovered 
very  easily  who  the  occupant  of  the  adjoining  room 

56 


A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 

was.  Also,  that  he  had  just  gone  out;  likewise,  that 
he  had  gone  in  a  cab,  and  alone.  His  Grace's  de- 
tectives were  in  a  theatre — which  one  of  the  ninety- 
three  the  metropolis  boasts  he  could  not  clearly  de- 
termine; therefore,  they  were  just  then  out  of  his 
battle.  To  employ  others  required  more  money  than  he 
now  had  at  command;  to  arouse  the  hotel  detectives, 
or  to  apply  at  Headquarters  with  a  description  of  the 
fugitive,  might  lead  to  unpleasant  and  undesirable  re- 
sults. He  decided  to  await  the  return  of  the  occupant 
of  number  nineteen,  which  occurred  at  eight  o'clock 
the  following  morning. 

At  eight  o'clock  one  gentleman,  the  Duke  argued, 
could  not  call  upon  another,  even  in  his  predicament. 
He  waited  until  nine,  the  two  detectives  having  turned 
up  in  the  mean  time.  He  dismissed  them  finally,  but 
without  telling  them  of  the  flight  of  his  "sister." 
Then,  dispensing  with  the  formality  of  sending  up  his 
name,  he  mounted,  and  rapped  upon  the  door  of  num- 
ber nineteen. 

"Come  in,"  sang  out  the  man  within,  who  hastily 
added:  "Oh,  wait  a  second,  the  door  is  locked,  I  be- 
lieve," with  which  he  opened  it  to  find  the  unknown 
visitor  standing,  hat  and  cane  in  hand,  bowing  low 
before  him. 

Montre"sor  was  brave;  he  was,  in  fact,  afraid  of  noth- 
ing in  this  world  or  any  other. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  the  honor."  He 
presented  his  card,  which  the  other  man  glanced  at 
perfunctorily,  but  even  before  doing  so  he  had  stepped 
aside  and  made  a  slight  motion  indicating  a  welcome 
to  his  room.  Montresor  took  immediate  if  depreca- 
tory advantage  of  this  courtesy  and  entered.  Each 

57 


THE  UNDEFILED 

man  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  one  who  was  well- 
bred,  whether  superficially  so  or  not  remained,  of  course, 
to  be  seen. 

"The  honor  is  mine,  sir.  I  see  you  know  my 
name."  The  host  laid  the  card  on  the  centre-table 
and  touched  a  chair.  "Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 
His  right  hand  unconsciously  sought  his  watch-chain, 
and  he  was  relieved  to  find  that  the  ring  of  turquoises 
and  little  diamonds  was  in  his  vest-pocket. 

The  Duke,  before  replying,  gave  a  hasty  glance 
around  the  room;  then  withdrawing  his  eyes,  he  fixed 
them  with  a  peculiar  scrutiny  upon  the  face  of  the 
bigger  man  as  he  ejaculated:  "My  sister!" 

The  other  man  raised  his  eyebrows  very  slightly  and 
interrogatively;  he  knew  then  that  he  had  to  deal 
with  the  abductor  of  the  unseen  girl  of  the  night  be- 
fore. He  said  nothing,  but  continued  to  look  inquir- 
ingly. 

"My  sister,"  repeated  his  Grace,  "a  charming  girl, 
a  little  unbalanced,  has  run  away  from  home  under 
some  hallucination." 

The  gaze  of  the  other  man  slowly  and  intentionally 
altered  from  polite  interest  to  rather  evident  boredom. 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  will  have  pity  upon  one  who  is 
nearly  distracted  with  anxiety?  In  that  apartment 
there,  only  yesterday,  I  had  succeeded  in  placing  my 
adored  little  sister  in  safety ;  safety  from  her  own  im- 
aginations. To-day,  I  was  to  have  taken  her  on  board 
the  ship  and  so  home  to  beautiful  France,  to  the  arms 
of  her  mother,  to  the  environment  of  one  of  the  noblest 
fortunes  in  France.  Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  indeed  so." 

His  Grace  paused  for  that  reply  which,  so  far,  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature  had  taught  him  he  had 

58 


A  PRINCE   OF   SILENCE 

every  right  to  expect.  It  did  not  come.  The  pause 
threatening  to  become  awkward,  he  resumed  speech. 

"Monsieur,  my  sister  has  escaped."  The  Duke's 
eyes  flashed  with  a  liquid  fire,  and  he  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  took  up  a  very  exciting  pose,  much  aided,  he 
thought,  by  his  gold-headed  cane.  Even  this  sally 
elicited  no  word  from  the  man  who  listened. 

"Monsieur,"  proceeded  the  Duke,  "I  come  to  you  a 
suppliant,  heart-broken,  in  despair,  to  say  to  you: 
Picture  to  yourself  a  young  girl,  beautiful,  with  the 
mind  unhinged,  the  inexperience  to  guide  her,  sudden- 
ly alone,  adrift  without  money  or  knowledge  of  the 
wickedness  of  the  world,  alone,  monsieur,  in  the 
streets  of  New  York."  His  Grace  struck  another  and 
more  desperate  attitude,  but  the  other  man  did  not 
speak. 

"Figure  to  yourself,  monsieur,  the  agony  of  a 
brother,  and  render  to  me  the  assistance  which,  as  a 
man  and  a  gentleman,  I  ask  of  you,  who  are  also  a 
man  and  a  gentleman,  I  am  well  aware." 

The  other  man  inclined  his  head  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  compliment,  but  he  said  nothing.  The 
Duke  now  surveyed  his  host  with  an  awakening  re- 
alization that  he  was  dealing  with  a  new  phase.  It 
angered  him.  It  also  rendered  him  extremely  coura- 
geous, even  foolhardy;  but  he  was  one  who  had  never 
been  afraid  to  play  high  for  the  attainment  of  his 
ends.  Risk  was  his  familiar  idol;  it  mattered  not 
much  whether  it  was  at  Monte  Carlo  or  New  York. 
He,  therefore,  now  drew  up  before  his  host,  and  the 
words  came  out  with  an  insistent,  insulting,  though 
veiled,  ferocity.  "Monsieur,  where  is  my  sister?" 

There  was  no  reply;  the  other  man  did  not  even 

5  59 


THE  UNDEFILED 

change  color  at  the  insinuation,  so  once  more  his 
Grace  was  compelled  to  proceed: 

"I  say  to  you,  monsieur!" — he  crossed  to  the  door 
between  the  two  rooms  and  laid  his  hand  impressively 
against  it — "that,  after  the  examination,  very  careful, 
too.  I  say  to  you  that  mademoiselle  my  sister  could 
not  have  escaped  in  any  other  way  than  through  your 
apartment  and  by  your  assistance!  Monsieur,  I  de- 
mand the  explanation.  I  demand  a  satisfaction,  at 
once!  I  make  no  publicity;  the  house  of  Montresor 
cannot  do  that;  but  I  have  from  you  the  whereabouts 
of  this  beautiful,  innocent  young  girl,  or  you  will  find 
out  the  reason,  monsieur!  Ah,  yes!" 

His  Grace  quitted  the  door  and  took  a  turn  across 
the  room.  Retracing  these  few  steps,  he  looked  at  the 
other  man,  who  had  risen,  it  is  true,  but  whose  face 
was  expressionless  and  whose  silence  continued. 

"Monsieur!"  now  cried  the  Duke,  willing  to  use  any 
provocative  to  speech,  no  matter  what,  "you  are  one 
coward!  Yes,  monsieur,  one  damn  coward!" 

The  host  said  nothing.  It's  a  fine  thing  to  say  ab- 
solutely nothing  if  one  can  only  do  it.  From  moment 
to  moment  Montresor  became  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  this  man  knew  all  about  Miss  Harriman, 
and  his  rage  was  doubled  by  his  own  impotence  in,  ap- 
parently, all  directions;  he  felt  with  a  gamester's  un- 
erring instinct  that  he  had  met  his  Waterloo,  and  that 
he  might  just  as  well  quit  at  once.  Handicapped  on 
every  side,  the  Frenchman  was  yet  master  of  his  own 
situation,  and  now  bowed  without  further  threat  or  at- 
tempt to  coerce  conversation,  saying: 

"  Monsieur,  I  salute  you.  You  are  still  one  coward. 
You  have  my  card.  I  tell  you  I  find  my  sister,  if  it 

60 


A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 

be  the  one  hundred  years  from  to-day,  yes!  Au 
revoir,  monsieur,  au  revoir."  The  Duke  having  re- 
ceived a  courteous  inclination  from  the  occupant  of 
number  nineteen,  left  him  to  himself. 

Nothing  became  public.  No  reporter  had  even  a 
line  of  the  transaction;  in  fact,  subtle  as  is  our  news 
service,  there  are  many  comedies  and  tragedies  of 
which  it  never  obtains  a  hint.  Montre"sor  had  excel- 
lent reasons  for  keeping  quiet.  The  man  of  number 
nineteen  felt  himself  pledged  in  honor  to  the  girl  he 
now  was  more  than  ever  assured  he  had  rescued  from 
some  sort  of  evil;  and  nothing  would  have  made  him 
break  faith  with  her,  although  sorely  tempted  to  put 
his  ducal  visitor  under  espionage  and  thus  insure  the 
mysterious  girl's  entire  safety.  But  none  of  this  could 
he  do  and  fulfil  the  confidence  she  had  reposed  in  him. 
It  was  to  remain  quiet ;  therefore,  he  went  down  to  his 
breakfast,  to  find  Montre"sor  also  partaking  of  his  morn- 
ing meal.  Thereafter  the  Duke  cabled  and  received  a 
reply ;  sailed,  as  he  had  purposed,  that  afternoon  for  his 
beautiful  France,  having  resolved  that  the  mother  of  his 
adored  Judith  was  now  the  one  to  come  to  America  and 
engage  herself  in  this  difficult  task.  He  would  fetch 
her,  when  a  combined  diplomacy  would  assuredly  result 
in  the  consummation  of  his  own  most  ardent  desires. 
His  Grace,  meantime,  had  no  real  fears  for  the  welfare 
of  Miss  Harriman ;  he  had  known  her  for  a  long  time, 
and  knew  her  to  be,  while  one  of  the  most  helpless  and 
dependent  of  beings,  also  the  most  capable  of  rising  to 
any  situation  and  overmastering  it.  His  confidence 
cannot  be  easily  impeached;  she  had  known  how  to 
escape  from  him.  His  Grace,  also,  with  the  fine  in- 
stinct of  some  good  blood  and  much  training  in  the 

61 


THE   UNDEFILED 

world,  felt  that  in  the  occupant  of  number  nineteen 
he  had  encountered  a  man  of  what  he  would  call 
propriety,  an  honest  man.  With  all  his  Grace's  reck- 
less associations,  he  yet  preserved  a  clear  brain  and 
one  facile  at  correct  estimation. 

Meantime,  Miss  Harriman  had  slipped  from  her 
neighbor's  room,  walked  along  the  corridor  according 
to  his  directions,  descended  the  staircase  nonchalantly 
and  unchallenged.  She  went  slowly  through  the  flow- 
ers that  lined  the  entrance  -  way ;  she  felt  the  sum- 
mer's night  wind  blow  freshly  sweet  against  her  cheek ; 
she  put  her  feet  upon  the  pavements,  and  the  exhilara- 
tion of  them  tingled  through  her  veins.  She  was  free! 
She  belonged  to  herself.  She  was  afraid  ?  Yes,  but 
still  it  was  a  different  fear  than  that  she  had  had  up 
in  the  padlocked  room.  She  walked  slowly  to  the  cor- 
ner of  Broadway,  heard  the  hurry  and  beat  of  the  great 
city,  and  was  glad.  Why,  she  did  not  know,  but  it  also 
occurred  to  her  just  at  this  moment  that  the  man  who 
had  loaned  her  the  money  now  in  her  purse  must  hear 
this  same  pulsating  throb  of  keen,  ongoing  life,  and 
somehow  it  made  her  glad ;  she  smiled. 

She  stopped  a  northbound  Broadway  car,  got  in  it, 
and  felt  the  breeze  now  more  freshly  as  she  was  swung 
along.  Forty-second  Street  was  soon  reached,  and  pres- 
ently she  found  herself  at  the  Grand  Central.  Here  she 
pulled  the  veil  from  her  face  and  looked  around.  She 
went  into  the  little  tea-room,  and  ate  some  buns  and 
fruit,  drank  some  tea,  bought  a  ticket  for  Fairfield, 
learned  there  was  a  way-train  starting  in  a  few  min- 
utes which  would  bring  her  there  at  4  A.M.  This  suited 
her.  If  possible,  she  intended  that  no  one  should  know 
where  she  had  been  or  what  had  happened  to  her.  She 

62 


A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 

had  her  reasons,  very  good  ones;  but  even  had  these 
not  existed,  she  was  one  of  those  rare  women  who  do 
not  enjoy,  but  rather  loath,  explanations,  whys  and 
wherefores,  the  sympathetic  curiosity  of  her  sex,  or  the 
excitement  of  having  had  something  happen  to  her  out 
of  the  ordinary.  She  wished  to  avoid  any  recital  of  the 
events  of  the  twelve  hours  which  had  intervened  be- 
tween the  time  Conningsby  had  left  her  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  brook  up  to  the  moment  when,  somewhat 
fagged  by  a  tiresome  journey,  she  alighted  from  the  car 
at  the  little  Fairfield  station. 

No  one  was  about  who  would  have  known  her  had 
they  seen  or  noticed  her,  and  she  easily  slipped  into 
^the  short  cut  which  led  from  the  tiny  depot  to  the  Inn 
grounds. 

She  remembered  very  well  that  the  parlor  windows, 
much  to  the  horror  of  Mrs.  Faxon,  who  lived  in  mortal 
terror  of  burglars,  were  always  left,  if  not  open,  at 
least  unbarred.  She  gained  the  lawn,  where  a  hasty 
glance  assured  her  that  no  one  was  in  sight.  Once  on 
the  porch,  she  found  the  front  door  wide  open.  She 
stepped  in  and  skurried  along  the  narrow  side  hall 
leading  to  her  room,  which  was  in  a  wing.  The  door 
of  this  stood  open  also;  she  darted  in,  shut  and  locked 
it,  with  feverish  haste  tore  off  the  clothes  she  wore, 
which  the  Duke  had  so  obligingly  provided,  unlocked 
her  trunk  and  stuffed  them  in,  together  with  the  shoes, 
hat,  bag,  and  veil,  put  on  one  of  her  wrappers,  and 
flung  herself  on  her  bed.  She  went  to  sleep. 

By  and  by  a  knocking  at  the  door  and  voices  awoke 
her. 

"Some  one  must  be  in  her  room!"  Beatrice  Bond 
cried  out,  excitedly. 

63 


THE  UNDEFILEP 

"The  door  is  certainly  locked!"  said  Dorothy. 

"  Any  news  ?  Any  news  ?"  a  half-dozen  people  asked, 
as  Conningsby's  tread  came  up  the  stairs. 

"None.     We  have  searched  the  woods." 

"But  who  is  in  here?  Pound  that  door  open. 
Here!  I'll  fetch  it!"  Ernest  Faxon  delivered  a  blow 
that  almost  did  fetch  it,  but  Judith,  now  thoroughly 
awakened,  sprang  up,  unlocked  her  door,  opened  it, 
and  stood,  a  dishevelled  but  exquisite  picture,  before 
their  astonished  gaze. 

A  hundred  things  were  said  all  at  once;  she  listened 
attentively,  while  Conningsby's  eyes  were  riveted  on 
her  face  in  a  great  and  wondering  joy.  Then,  when  a 
pause  finally  came,  she  spoke. 

"I  think  I  must  have  become  unconscious  after  Mr. 
Conningsby  left  me.  I  must  have  wandered  off  into 
some  strange  part  of  the  woods.  When  I  came  to  my- 
self I  could  not  move  or  get  away  from  the  place.  I 
was,  perhaps,  benumbed.  As  soon  as  I  could  stir,  I 
tried  to  get  my  bearings,  and  finally  I  reached  here — 
oh" — she  paused — "I  don't  know,  I've  been  asleep  "- 
her  pretty  hand  went  up  to  her  wonderful  eyes  in  the 
fashion  of  a  newly  awakened  child  —  "it  must  have 
been  quite  awhile  ago.  The  front  door  was  open — 

"We  left  it  open  all  night  in  the  hope  you  might 
come  back,"  said  Beatrice. 

Judith  smiled  at  her  as  she  resumed.  "I  am  so 
sorry  to  have  given  you  all  such  a  fright ;  it  was  good 
of  you  all  to  care.  I  want  to  thank  all  the  village 
men  for  going  to  my  rescue." 

"Odd  lot  we  were,"  cried  Ernest,  "not  to  have  dis- 
covered you.  Where  was  the  place  ?" 

"My  dear,"  interposed  Mrs.  Faxon,  "it  is  hardly 
64 


A  PRINCE  OF  SILENCE 

likely  that  Miss  Harriman,  in  her  dazed  condition,  took 
note  of  the  exact  spot,  or  could  even  find  it  again; 
people  wander,  when  in  these  states,  for  many  miles." 

"Yes,"  assented  Miss  Harriman,  "so  I  have  heard, 
so  I  believe." 

"The  girl  needs  rest,"  said  Mrs.  Faxon. 

"A  physician!"  exclaimed  Conningsby,  with  anxiety. 

"No,  no,"  said  Judith,  and  then  by  a  kind  of  curi- 
ous common  consent  they  all  fell  away  from  that  part 
of  the  house,  and  left  her  standing  outside  her  half- 
closed  door,  and  Conningsby  by  her  side. 

"My  little  love!  My  darling  one,"  he  whispered, 
over  her  head.  "  What  I  have  been  through  of  agony 
— but  no  matter,  no  matter,  I  have  you  safe.  You 
are  not  hurt  or  bruised?"  She  shook  her  head,  smil- 
ing up  at  him.  "  It  must  have  been  horrible,  all  night 
out  there,  alone  in  the  open." 

"There  are  worse  places."  She  recalled  number 
seventeen  and  its  padlocked  windows. 

"And  better,"  he  said,  putting  his  arms  about  her. 
She  nodded  in  a  contented  way. 

"Will  you  be  my  wife?"  he  asked. 

"But  would  you  not  want  your  wife  to  love  you?" 
she  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  She  will.     I  am  not  afraid." 

"  But  I  am  incapable  of  love." 

Conningsby  smiled  indulgently  and  with  a  caress  in 
his  curving  lips. 

"We  shall  see  about  that.  Now  it  is  for  me  to  win 
your  consent  to  my  caring  for  you.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means,  to  care  for  one?" 

Miss  Harriman  sighed. 

"It  is  to  surround  you  with  such  a  barricade  of 

65 


THE  UNDEFILED 

love  and  passion  and  watchfulness  that  no  harm  or 
danger  or  pain  or  sorrow  or  want  can  come  near  you. 
I  have  read  your  stories ;  they  are  fine,  but  you  were 
weary  when  you  wrote  them.  If  you  permit  me  to 
care  for  you,  you  shall  never  write  any  more.  I  will 
do  all  that;  you  shall  be  my  queen,  and  your  only 
employment  shall  be  to  accept  my  love,  and  later, 
later — I  can  wait — for  you  to  love  me." 

He  had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  touched  the  keynote 
to  her  situation.  If  a  woman  ever  longed  for  care  and 
rest,  this  girlish  creature  standing  in  the  little  Inn  hall 
did,  that  morning  of  summer. 

"Sweetheart,  beloved,  can't  you  say  'yes'  to  me 
now?" 

She  nodded,  and  with  a  movement  of  exquisite  shy- 
ness slipped  back  into  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 


VI 

THE    GIRL    WITH    THE    TURQUOISE    RING 

CONNINGSBY  at  once  told  Mrs.  Faxon  of  his  en- 
gagement to  Miss  Harriman,  and  the  affair  re- 
ceived the  encomiums  of  every  one  at  the  Gray  Fox 
Inn,  not  excepting  Beatrice  Bond.  Beatrice  was  a 
character  in  her  way ;  she  had  sturdy,  shrewd  Scotch 
blood  in  her  veins  from  an  Edinburgh  artist  father, 
from  whom  she  inherited,  likewise,  her  talent  as  a 
miniature-painter;  she  had  hot,  poetic,  languorous 
blood  in  her,  too,  from  an  Italian  mother;  she  had  the 
enthusiasms,  mysticisms,  and  artificial  cults  so  neces- 
sary, so  it  would  seem,  to  all  girls  educated  in  Amer- 
ica. One  of  these  enthusiasms  was  beauty.  Beatrice 
could  not  resist  beauty,  and  to  her  way  of  thinking 
Judith  Harriman  was  irresistibly  beautiful.  She  liked 
to  look  at  and  to  watch  her,  to  imitate  her ;  she  took 
a  kind  of  half  plaintive,  half  savage  pleasure  in  be- 
holding this  other  girl  as  the  idol  of  the  man  whom 
she  herself  idolized.  It  was  a  curious  condition,  and 
not  so  rare  as  a  casual  observer  of  feminine  hu- 
man nature  may  fancy.  All  the  while  that  Beatrice 
watched  Judith  with  Conningsby,  she  felt  a  moral 
persuasion  that  Judith  did  not  and  never  would  give 
the  literary  artist  what  he  craved.  In  this  respect, 
could  they  have  discussed  the  question,  Conningsby 

67 


THE  UNDEF1LED 

and  Beatrice  would  have  found  themselves  differing. 
He  did  crave  worship.  Beatrice  and  he  would  have 
agreed  on  that;  he  had  invariably  aroused  worship; 
he  needed,  and  wanted,  a  woman  to  look  upon  him 
with  that  not  uncommon  species  of  adoration  which 
many  women  lavish  upon  many  kinds  and  sorts  of 
men.  He  hoped,  and  thoroughly  believed,  that  the 
capacity  for  this  kind  of  love  was  latent  in  his  be- 
trothed, and  fancied  that  to  him,  to  time,  and  to 
opportunity  might  confidently  be  left  the  demonstra- 
tion of  its  possession.  Beatrice,  on  the  other  hand, 
realizing  Conningsby's  infallible  needs,  *also  realized 
that  Judith  Harriman  would  never  fulfil  them;  rath- 
er was  it  a  fact  that  Miss  Harriman  was  built  along 
the  same  lines — unconscious  ones  in  her  case — as  those 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  promised  to  marry.  If 
there  were  to  be  any  idolatry,  it  was  safe  for  Bea- 
trice to  say  to  herself  that  Miss  Harriman  would  not 
be  offering  it,  although  she  might  easily  be  its  re- 
cipient. If  this  form  of  love  were  what  Conningsby 
promised  himself,  he  was  no  doubt  destined  to  disap- 
pointment. 

But  one  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  rest  of  the  peo- 
ple at  the  Inn  did  not  occupy  their  minds  with  any 
such  conjectures,  and  that  they  accepted  the  romance 
with  acclaim  as  a  merciful  break  in  the  dulness  of  the 
always  delightfully  instructive  summer-school. 

"I  hope,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Faxon  said,  after  she  had 
indulged  in  the  usual  felicitations,  "that  you  have  had 
your  serious  thoughts  about  the  state  of  marriage  into 
which  you  are  now  pledged  to  enter?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't,"  Judith  replied.  "You  see, 
Mrs.  Faxon,  dear,  one  finds  so  much  that's  serious  in 

68 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

life  thrust  upon  one,  that  when  it  comes  to  a  voluntary 
matter  like  marriage,  one  prefers,  doesn't  one,  to  re- 
gard it  as  play?" 

"My  dear  child!"  The  older  woman's  tone  was  one 
of  pained  surprise. 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Lillian,  "I  don't  agree." 

"I  do  agree  with  you,  Judith  Harriman,"  said  Bea- 
trice. 

Ernest  had  gone  off  on  a  week's  sketching  trip  to 
the  White  Mountains,  or  he  would  have  been  pleased 
to  have  aired  his  view :  the  individual-life  family  all  had 
views  on  eveiy  possible,  and  many  impossible,  subjects. 

"One  should  have,  in  marrying,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Faxon,  "a  definite  aim.  You  will  pardon  me,  my 
dear,  as  you  have  no  mother — "  (Here  occurred  a 
slight  pause;  no  one  was  sure  as  to  Miss  Harriman's 
having  or  not  having  a  mother.  This  was  a  chance  to 
discover ;  but  the  chance  did  not  materialize.  Judith's 
countenance  retained  its  inquiring  and  interested  ex- 
pression only,  as  she  kept  on  looking  at  the  woman 
who  was  talking  to  her) — "no  mother,"  Mrs.  Faxon 
reiterated,  in  a  modified  and  prosaically  saddened  tone, 
"if  I  take  the  liberty  of  saying  things  to  you  I  should 
thank  any  one  to  say  to  my  girls  were  I  removed  from 
them?" 

"Certainly,  of  course,  I  will,"  returned  Judith, 
blithely. 

"One  should  have  an  object,  well  defined  and  dis- 
tinctly emphasized." 

"What  was  yours,  Mrs.  Faxon,  dear?"  Miss  Harri- 
man asked  it  in  the  most  exemplary  tone. 

There  was  a  Mr.  Faxon;  he  was  often  seen  about, 
but  never  heard  or  heard  of. 

69 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"  My  dear,  I  married  Mr.  Faxon  to  have  some  one  to 
talk  to." 

"Yes,"  Judith  assented,  in  a  pleased  and  interested 
voice. 

"I  felt  that  my  career  was  to  be  one  of  service  to 
my  fellow- woman,  that  I  was  to  be  a  founder  of  clubs, 
a  factor  in  higher  education,  a  leader  in  the  principles 
of  true  patriotism  and  radical  municipal  reform,  and  a 
prophet,  a  preacher,  an  exemplar  of  the  individual  life. 
I  knew,  young  as  I  was,  that  I  should  need  a  daily 
outlet;  that  when  I  should  come  home  at  night,  fagged 
from  my  duties,  the  prime  requirement  would  be 
some  one  to  listen  quietly  while  I  poured  it  all  out — 
so  I  married  Mr.  Faxon." 

"Yes,"  gasped  the  newly  engaged,  "but  the  other 
side,  the  home  life,  the  family,  the  existence  between 
the  walls,  as  it  were?" 

"Incidents,  my  dear — incidents.  A  true  woman's 
public  career  is  her  life;  these  matters  of  the  house- 
hold, the  children,  the  servants,  are  all  details,  and 
can  be  left  easily  to  those  specially  equipped  for  such 
services,  while  the  woman  with  a  real  mission  goes  out 
and  stands  alongside  of  men  to  fight  the  world." 

"I  see,"  remarked  Miss  Harriman,  surveying  Mrs. 
Faxon's  two  living  details  as  they  sat  listening  calmly 
to  their  parent's  speech. 

"The  individual  life  is  what  I  have  stood  for  from 
the  start.  It  was  a  little  hard  to  bring  Mr.  Faxon 
into  line  at  first,  but  he  soon  recognized  the  principle, 
and,  I  think,  fell  in  love  with  the  application." 

"Now,  do  tell  me  what  it  is?"  asked  Judith. 

"Going  to  be  married,"  cried  Lillian,  "and  not 
know  the  individual  life?" 

7o 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

"Bother  about  the  individual  life!"  exclaimed 
Dorothy.  "It's  the  dual  life  a  girl's  thinking  about 
when — she's — in  love." 

"Dorothy!"  said  Lillian,  shocked. 

"Dorothy!"  echoed  the  mother,  reprovingly,  even 
sorrowfully.  "  We  will  assume  that  Miss  Harriman  is 
too  far  advanced  and  emancipated  from  worn-out 
ideals  to  find  herself  in  love." 

Miss  Harriman  laughed.  It  was  a  convenient 
method  of  covering  up  her  own  inquiring  mind  as  to 
whether  she  was  in  love. 

"The  individual  life,  my  dear,  is  the  one  I  and  my 
little  family  lead,  more  perceptibly  at  home  than  we 
can  here  in  a  semi-public  house.  Each  one  of  us  has 
our  own  room,  fitted  up  with  couches  and  screens,  so 
as  to  form  a  suitable  reception-room;  each  one  of  us 
has  our  separate  set  of  acquaintances  and  friends, 
quite  unknown  to  and  untrammelled  by  the  others; 
each  has  his  or  her  own  pursuits,  pleasures,  hours  for 
meals,  for  rising,  retiring,  going  out.  We  never  do 
anything  together,  you  see.  To  do  things  together  is 
hampering;  it  irritates  the  spirit  and  chafes  the  soul. 
These  should  never  be  clogged  by  anything  or  any  one." 

"But,"  Judith  queried,  "what  becomes  of  the 
charm  of  family  life,  the  intercourse  of  father,  mother, 
children;  the  things  and  studies  and  pursuits  and 
friends  in  common?"  She  laughed  a  little;  she  was 
amused;  she  had  never  before  thought  of  family  life 
until  she  found  it  thus  thrust  upon  her  by  this  strange 
woman. 

"Mistakes,  my  dear;  a  series  of  mistakes  which  I 
and  my  cult  are  rectifying.  We  are  bound  to  suc- 
ceed; divorce  is  one  of  the  menaces  of  the  century." 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Is  it?"  Miss  Harriman  asked. 

Mrs.  Faxon  did  not  heed  this  infinitesimal  and 
worthless  interruption,  but  proceeded: 

"And  the  propaganda  of  the  individual  life  is  the 
enemy  of  divorce." 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  should  think  it  might,  you 
know,  suggest  divorce  to  some  people,"  the  girl  said, 
not  laughing  perceptibly. 

"  No,  my  dear,  no.  Now,  I  want  to  see  you  happy. 
I  want  you  to  think  over  the  individual  life,  the  ab- 
solute freedom  of  woman." 

"But  man?"  asked  Judith,  smiling. 

"Oh,  man  doesn't  count!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Faxon. 
"Man  is  free,  to  start  with;  it  is  for  woman  to  assert 
herself,  to  show  man  that  she  is  no  longer  a  toy,  a 
plaything,  or  a  slave." 

"But  suppose  some  obsolete  creatures  feel  that 
that's  just  what  they'd  like  to  be!"  cried  Judith,  rising, 
and  laughing  aloud  now. 

"  My  dear,.  I  can't,  really  I  can't  allow  myself  to 
think  that  of  any  but  the  Chinese,  and  even  they — " 

"  Miss  Harriman  has  eyes  that  are  one-half  Chinese," 
Beatrice  Bond  said  from  a  corner  where  she  had  been 
trying  to  sketch  the  young  writer. 

Mrs.  Faxon  laughed,  good-humoredly.  She  always 
.was  in  a  good-humor  when  she  had,  as  she  expressed 
it,  "sown  good  seed  in  fresh  ground." 

"Miss  Harriman  must  come  next  winter  to  my 
Wednesdays,"  she  said,  cordially.  "She  must  meet 
the  advanced  women,  the  great  thinking,  doing  women 
of  to-day.  She  is  too  bright  to  be  allowed  to  waste 
herself  on  the  average." 

Many  had  been  the  innocent,  happy,  commonplace 
72 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

young  persons  of  her  own  susceptible  sex  whom  this 
worthy,  or  unworthy,  woman  had  lured,  by  just  these 
suavities,  into  those  realms  of  clubdom,  advanced  and 
individual  lifeism,  where  they  had  eventually  dug 
graves  for  all  their  best  and  brightest  and  most  inno- 
cent. 

Judith  smiled  and  inclined  her  head.  "I  am  sure 
I  should  be  happy  to  meet  all  your  friends." 

"Once  in  a  fortnight  we  do  coalesce."  Mrs.  Faxon 
said  it  deprecatingly,  as  if  to  coalesce  might  be  a  crime. 

"You  what?"  asked  Miss  Harriman,  slowly,  and 
with  great  courtesy  and  great  emphasis. 

"Coalesce,"  said  Lillian;  "it's  an  advance-thought- 
and-movement  phrase.  It  means  that  all  our  friends — 
mine,  Dorothy's,  Ernest's,  mama's — meet  in  the  big 
drawing-rooms  of  our  house.  There  are  no  introduc- 
tions. Every  one  speaks  to  every  one,  and  those  who 
are  affinities  discover  themselves  to  each  other." 

"I  see,"  said  Judith  for  the  second  time,  as  her  eyes 
opened  more  widely.  "And  Mr.  Faxon's  friends?" 
she  added,  wickedly,  but  with  such  a  perfection  of 
grace  that  no  one  could  take  an  exception  to  the 
query. 

"Father's  friends!"  cried  Dorothy  Faxon,  with  a 
wondering  halt  in  her  intonation. 

"Why,  father,"  said  Lillian,  superciliously,  "hasn't 
any  friends." 

"You  mean,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  said  the  mother, 
"that  your  father's  friends  would  not  measure  up  to 
the  standard  we  all  of  us  individually  set.  Mr.  Faxon 
is  a  bit  old-fashioned,"  his  wife  said  to  Judith;  "he 
seldom  comes  in  on  us  Wednesdays.  He  goes  to  some 
men's  club,  I  believe,  that  night,  and  plays  dominoes." 

73 


THE   UNDEFILED 

"Oh,    said  Judith,  "I  see." 

Then  Conningsby  came  in  and  took  her  off  for  a 
drive.  Later,  when  they  got  back,  he  found  a  telegram 
from  his  publishers  which  necessitated  his  packing  his 
suit-case  and  going  to  town.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
he  was  to  go  down  on  Long  Island  to  the  publisher's 
home,  spend  Sunday,  and  have  a  conference  on  im- 
portant matters  relative  to  a  forthcoming  serial,  its 
book  rights,  the  next  novel,  some  poems  for  the  maga- 
zines; and  two  lecture  agents  were  also  to  see  him  on 
Monday.  Conningsby  was  very  much  in  demand — at 
his  zenith,  many  people  said  and  thought.  The  news- 
papers seldom  went  to  press  without  an  item  about  him 
somewhere  in  their  pages;  frequently,  it  was  a  half- 
column  display  and  a  picture.  Conningsby  did  not 
think  himself  at  his  height  by  any  means.  He  saw 
himself  far,  far  ahead  of  his  present  position,  good  as 
this  undeniably  was.  His  ambition  was  inordinate, 
his  intellect  fertile,  munificent,  fascinating,  and  power- 
ful. While  very  much  in  love  with  the  woman  he  had 
won,  he  still  was  clear-headed  enough  to  recognize  her, 
so  to  speak,  intellectual  value  to  him.  He  found  her 
an  inspiration  to  his  imagination  and  to  his  writing 
faculty  such  as  he  had  not  dreamed  possible.  He  had 
proved  sufficient  unto  himself  in  the  past;  but  at  the 
point  of  contact  with  this  infinitely  suggestive  soul  he 
discovered  himself  to  be  bankrupt,  and  that  it  was 
she  who  would  recoup  him  to  an  inception,  an  accom- 
plishment, and  a  fame  of  which,  hitherto,  he  had  not 
even  dreamed.  She  met  all  his  latent  requirements 
with  a  surprising  measure  of  fulfilment;  she  even 
seemed  to  him  to  have  created  splendid  possibilities 
in  him,  which  her  own  influence  and  potentiality 

74 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

would  develop  into  facts.  The  one  thing — the  greatest 
of  all  things  in  his  estimation — was  that  her  love  for 
him  was  inadequate,  not  absorbing,  and  lacking  in 
the  devotional  and  adoring  elements  which  were  ne- 
cessities to  him.  Nevertheless,  these  missing  quali- 
ties were  not  bars  to  his  happiness;  but,  rather,  acces- 
sories and  spurs.  He  felt  within  himself  all  the  forces 
required  to  awaken,  even  create,  in  her  that  quality  of 
love  which  he  craved,  and  thus  promised  himself  an 
ecstasy  of  delight  in  bringing  all  Judith's  dormant 
possibilities  into  commission.  This  was  his  mood  as 
he  left  her  to  go  up  to  town  and  thence  to  Long 
Island. 

The  car  which  carried  him  from  Fairfield  had  only 
rolled  away  from  the  station  five  minutes  when  the 
up-train  from  New  York  came  in.  Buck  Grant  was 
there  to  meet  his  friend,  who  thus  kept  his  promise 
for  an  "over  Sunday"  with  the  cowboy  rector. 

"Haven't  any  shanty  of  my  own,"  sang  out  the 
host,  as  the  two  men  boarded  the  Inn  barge.  "  Have 
to  put  you  up  at  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  where  I  hang 
out."  The  visitor  nodded  with  a  smile  as  he  said: 

"If  you  were  only  a  married  man  now,  Buck,  they'd 
build  you  a  rectory  in  no  time  at  all." 

These  two  were  the  barge's  only  passengers  that 
trip. 

The  Rector  shook  his  head. 

"No  marriage  for  mine." 

"Can't  you  make  her  reconsider?"  inquired  the 
other. 

"Wouldn't  even  try.  Couldn't  be  a  'reconsider.' 
She  never  considered  at  all." 

"Faint  heart,"  said  the  new-comer,  tritely. 

e  75 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Me!  Ask  her  to  consider  me!"  Buck  exclaimed, 
warmly,  with  an  inflection  of  quiet  sarcasm.  "Wait 
until  you  see  her." 

The  guest  nodded. 

Buck  surveyed  his  friend,  then  added:  "You  might 
measure  half-way  up  to  her."  His  gaze  was  critical 
and  appraising  of  his  companion,  as  well  as  doubtful. 

"I!"  The  tone  was  full  of  mirth  and  a  little  curi- 
osity. 

"Don't  know  as  you  would,  though.  Why,  I  tell 
you,  pard,  she's  just  divine."  His  voice  sank  to  a 
whisper,  and  his  friend  gave  a  quick,  penetrating  look 
at  his  face. 

"Make  a  try  for  her,  Buck,  old  man,"  he  said  at 
last.  "You're  good  enough  for  the  best  woman  that 
lives." 

"Hush-h,"  the  priest  said,  in  a  whisper.  "The  rest 
of  'em  are  all  right  enough,  of  course;  I'd  not  hesitate 
a  minute  at  taking  chances  with  any  one  of  them.  But 
she — "  He  shook  his  head.  "Besides,"  he  added, 
presently,  "she's  booked." 

"Oh,  I  see."     The  falling  inflection  was  conclusive. 

They  had  reached  the  Inn,  and  presently  the  new- 
comer was  being  presented  to  three  of  the  individual 
lives,  and  being  regarded  by  them  as  a  find.  Even 
the  individual  life  does  not  divorce  women  from  a  full 
appreciation  of  an  attractive  and  somewhat  unusual 
man. 

Buck  Grant  looked  around  for  Miss  Harriman. 
She  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  When  he  met  Beatrice 
Bond  in  the  hallway  of  the  one-story  wing  where  her 
room,  and  also  Judith's,  was  located,  he  stopped  and 
asked  where  she  was. 

76 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

"Not  well,  and  in  her  room.  The  drive  in  the  hot 
sun  was  too  much  for  her  to-day.  She  has  not  been 
well  since  that  horrid  night  in  the  woods." 

"But  she  will  be  down  for  supper?"  he  said,  eagerly, 
and  with  all  a  man's  incoherency  as  to  woman's  ills. 

"Oh  no,  no;  she  must  keep  still  in  her  room  for  a 
couple  of  days.  She  needs  absolute  rest  and  quiet. 
Mrs.  Faxon  says  so." 

"Oh."  He  was  crestfallen;  his  friend  had  just  told 
him  that  he  must  return  to  New  York  the  next  after- 
noon. He  could  not  have  explained  it  lucidly  to  him- 
self, but  he  was  inordinately  anxious  for  his  friend  to 
see  Miss  Harriman.  He  was  in  that  singular  state 
where  he  longed  for  the  talkative  confirmation  of  his 
choice,  and  for  the  verbal  expression  of  an  adequate 
opinion  of  it,  which  he  seemed  to  feel  sure  his  friend 
could  give  him.  In  his  own  vernacular,  had  he  used 
it,  he  would  have  said  that  the  girl  he  hopelessly 
loved  and  the  man  for  whom  he  cared  most  in  the 
world  "would  pair  it  off  to  the  top  notch."  Marriage 
or  passion  did  not  occur  to  him  in  the  connection;  it 
was  simply  that  he  knew  these  two  to  be  kin,  he 
wished  them  to  encounter,  and  he  was  chagrined  that 
they  were  not  to  do  so. 

"You  are  coming  in  to  supper,  of  course? "he  asked, 
politely,  of  Beatrice,  caring  nothing  whatever  about 
her  or  what  she  did. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  am  going  to  stay  with  Miss 
Judith  all  the  time.  Miss  Bates,  the  house-keeper,  is 
to  send  in  our  meals  to  us.  She  is  not  to  be  left  alone 
at  all." 

The  clergyman  sighed,  went  back  to  the  piazza,  and 
then  showed  his  friend  up-stairs  to  his  room.  The  two 

77 


THE  UNDEFILED 
• 

men  spent  most  of  the  night  together  (after  a  cheerful 
chat  between  eight  and  ten  with  most  of  the  advanced 
women  in  general,  and  the  Faxons  in  particular)  talk- 
ing over  old  times,  and  new  schemes,  new  ventures, 
projects  in  which  each  was  engaged. 

Sunday  morning  breakfast  was  late.  Buck  Grant, 
not  waking  his  guest,  had  been  over  to  his  church 
and  had  early  service.  He  came  back,  intending  to 
knock  the  visitor  up,  but  instead  found  that  he  had 
been  up  for  some  time,  strolling  about  the  place. 

Indeed  he  had.  He  had  tubbed,  shaved,  and  dressed, 
and  gone  out  into  the  open,  sauntered  across  the 
grassy  lawn  at  the  side  of  the  house,  sat  down  on  a 
bench  near  some  beehives,  lighted  his  cigar,  and 
smoked,  and  smoked.  The  atmosphere,  the  dim  blue 
haze  on  some  far-off  hills  that  lined  up  against  the 
northern  sky,  the  hum  of  the  bees,  the  odor  of  old- 
fashioned  garden-flowers,  all  reminded  him  of  a  day 
in  Languedoc,  which  he  had  never  quite  forgotten  for 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  time;  reminded  him,  strange 
to  say,  of  a  girl's  voice,  too,  which  he  had  heard 
a  few  nights  ago  at  his  hotel.  He  glanced  down 
at  the  ring  of  turquoises  and  diamonds  which  daz- 
zled at  his  chain.  In  some  way,  now,  whenever  he 
thought  of  that  girl  whose  life  he  had  saved  in  France, 
he  also  recalled  the  girl  of  the  turquoise  ring.  There 
had  been,  he  fancied,  a  certain  quality  alike  in  their 
two  voices;  although,  to  be  sure,  the  voice  of  the  girl 
in  Languedoc  had  been  buoyant,  if  dependent,  full  of 
vigor  and  vivacity,  while  the  voice  of  the  turquoise- 
ring  girl  had  been  of  an  older,  sadder,  more  poignant 
and  self-reliant  calibre.  While  he  thus  thought  he 
started  visibly  and  looked  around  him ;  he  had  fancied 

78 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

he  heard  the  voice  of  either  the  Languedoc  girl  or  the 
turquoise  girl,  there,  in  that  corner  of  Connecticut. 

It  said:  "But  I  don't  know  about  love  as  you  put 
it,  Beatrice.  I'm  not  thinking  of  it  that  way.  I'm 
only  thinking  of  quiet  and  rest  and — safety." 

Bob  Travers  (that  was  the  name  of  Buck  Grant's 
friend)  shook  himself.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen, 
the  window-blinds  all  about  were  shut  tight,  people 
were  not  up  yet,  probably;  he  heard  no  answering 
voice,  he  heard  nothing  more.  He  sat  down  again,  then 
got  up  and  sauntered  over  to  the  orchard.  He  was 
unimaginative,  he  had  been  told,  but  just  then  he  put 
up  a  stunt  in  imagination  that  might  have  discounted 
Conningsby's  best  romantic  endeavor.  As  he  paced 
up  and  down  under  the  gnarled  apple-trees,  smoking, 
he  thought  thus :  Supposing  that  Languedoc  girl  with 
the  wonderful  Oriental  tilt  in  her  eyes,  those  wonder- 
ful red  lips,  that  rare  and  most  divine  and  most  elusive 
smile,  and  the  unseen  girl  of  the  adventure — the  girl 
whom  the  Duke  de  Montresor  claimed  as  his  sister — 
should  be  one  and  the  same;  supposing  yonder  —  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  Inn,  and  par- 
ticularly at  the  row  of  four  windows  in  the  one-story 
wing  giving  on  the  lawn,  and  the  bench  where  he  had 
been  recently  sitting  —  supposing,  now,  that  Buck's 
girl,  the  girl  Buck  had  said  he  (Travers)  might  measure 
half-way  up  to,  were  to  turn  out  to  be  the  Languedoc 
girl  and  the  turquoise  -  ring  girl,  too!  He  laughed 
aloud,  and  remarked  to  himself  that  if  everything  else 
had  only  failed  him  in  life  he  might  have  made  good 
in  imaginative  literature. 

Then  Buck  found  him,  just  returning  to  the  Inn. 
They  had  a  charming  time  at  breakfast  with  the 

79 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Faxons,  and  afterwards  Travers  remarked  to  Buck 
Grant : 

"There's  a  nice  little  girl,  that  younger  one  of  the 
Faxons." 

"Miss  Dorothy?     Yes,  of  course,  she  is." 

"Likes  you  some,"  observed  the  guest." 

"No,"  returned  the  clergyman. 

Travers  nodded  sagely,  smilingly,  with  meaning. 

Buck  shook  his  head.  "Only  one  girl  in  the  world 
for  me,  Bob,  and  that  one's  all  against  me.  Service 
isn't  until  eleven.  Come  sit  around  this  way  by  the 
beehives.  Always  a  breeze  there.  Hold  on  a  minute. 
I  must  run  in  and  'phone  over  to  a  substitute  for  my 
organist;  she's  on  the  sick-list  to-day." 

"I  know  the  beehives,"  remarked  Travers  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  struck  a  match  and  rounded  the  corner 
by  the  one-story  wing.  Then  he  came  to  a  stand-still 
and  tossed  away  his  freshly  lighted  cigar. 

One  of  the  windows  in  the  wing  was  wide  open,  the 
blinds  flung  back,  the  white  curtains  pushed  aside, 
and  within  sat  a  girl,  a  woman  at  any  rate;  her  back 
was  towards  the  open,  and  the  glory  of  the  sunshine 
played  in  a  flood  upon  the  matching  glory  of  her 
long  hair  as  it  hung  down  outside  the  window  dry- 
ing, nearly  quite  dry  then.  Beautiful  big  ripples  of 
bronze-touched  brownness,  curling  into  pretty  rings  at 
the  ends,  blown  about  a  little  by  the  freshness  of  the 
breeze  so  that  Travers  could  see  the  firm  white  of  her 
neck  and  the  lobe  of  her  perfect  ear;  nothing  more. 
She  sat  motionless.  His  hat  came  off;  he  felt  himself 
in  the  presence  of  some  one  who  was  royal ;  he  gazed 
at  this  beauty  of  a  woman's  hair  as  if  it  had  been  for- 
bidden fruit ;  his  face  flushed  a  little  with  eager  wonder 

80 


THE  GIRL  WITH  THE  TURQUOISE  RING 

as  to  whether  she  would  turn  her  face  and  let  him  see 
it.  She  did  not  stir.  Then  he  heard  Buck  Grant  com- 
ing back,  and  he  turned  sharply  to  meet  him,  saying: 

"Suppose  we  go  out  in  the  orchard  instead.  I've 
investigated  that,  too;  it's  cooler  there."  He  did  not 
want  any  one  else  to  see  that  hair. 

Buck  nodded.  "Come  along.  Our  talking  might 
annoy  her,  too;  her  room's  one  of  those  in  that  wing." 

They  had  reached  the  orchard,  when  Travers  an- 
swered: "Has  she  been  here  all  summer?" 

"For  six  weeks." 

"Not  been  away  at  all?"  He  could  not  have  satis- 
factorily explained  why  he  asked  so  stupid  a  question. 

Buck  looked  at  him  a  bit  curiously  as  he  replied: 
"No,  rtot  for  a  day.  See  here,  old  man,  what  are  you 
thinking  about?" 

"Of  the  girl  I  saw  in  Languedoc." 

"Oh!" 

Precisely  then  Miss  Harriman  was  remembering  the 
man  in  Languedoc.  Conningsby  had  not  yet  succeeded 
in  blotting  him  from  her  recollection — by  no  means. 
What  was  she  about  to  do?  Marry.  Whom?  A 
man  of  singular  powers  of  fascination,  of  ability,  re- 
nown, a  genius,  and  who  adored  her;  yes.  But  still 
she  could  see  with  much  more  pleasurable  distinct- 
ness the  face  of  the  Languedoc  man  than  she  could 
the  face  of  her  intended  husband.  Judith  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  her  writing-pad  and  pen  and  the  ink- 
stand. She  had  promised  Sidney  Conningsby  to  write 
him  every  day.  It  occurred  to  her,  urged  by  one  of 
those  impulses  as  familiar  to  her  as  they  were  inex- 
plicable, that  she  would  write  and  tell  him  she  had 
changed  her  mind  and  would  not  marry  him. 

81 


THE  UNDEFILED 

She  did  so,  and  while  she  was  writing  the  message 
Travers  felt  a  strange,  subtle  gladness,  a  kind  of  ec- 
stasy of  the  mind,  the  source  of  which  he  did  not  try 
to  fathom,  stealing  over  him ;  and  he  saw,  with  a  most 
intense  perfectness,  before  him  the  bewitching  face  of 
the  girl  in  Languedoc,  and  her  voice  was  the  voice  of 
the  girl  with  the  turquoise  ring. 


VII 

JUDITH'S  PAST 

WHEN  Conningsby  got  that  letter  of  Judith's  he 
was  sitting  in  the  publisher's  library  at  Sayville. 
He  thrust  it  hastily  in  his  pocket  until  he  should  be 
alone,   and.  the   conversation  between  the  two  men 
went  on. 

"You're  making  a  mistake,  Sidney,"  said  the  pub- 
lisher. 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  think  that  a  fellow  needs  the 
tonic  of  a  totally  new  environment  every  once  in  a 
while;  I  mean  the  writing  fellow,  the  fellow  who 
grinds  out  novels." 

"Granted,"  replied  the  publisher.  "But  take  it 
short:  a  greyhound  across  the  pond,  a  snatch  of  Lon- 
don, a  dip  at  Paris  or  Berlin,  a  remote  corner  in  the 
south  of  France  or  a  peep  at  Greece,  say." 

"  I  will  have  something  different."  The  tone  was  de- 
cisive. "I've  had  this  Colon  romance  in  my  mind 
now  for  months.  I've  got  to  do  it;  got  to  get  the 
local  color." 

"Read  up,  my  dear  man,  read  up." 

"Impossible.     I  want  the  actual  tang  of  it." 

"But  you  say  it  will  take  you  a  year  to  get  hold 
of  the  actual  tang,  as  you  call  it."  The  tone  was 
despairing. 

83 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  do  this  thing  in  a  leisurely  way; 
I'm  going  to  enjoy  it,  taste  it;  I'm  going  to  make  it 
the  very  best  that's  in  me.  I  tell  you,  I've  got  a 
stimulus  I  never  had  before."  Conningsby's  dark, 
handsome  eyes  flashed  under  their  heavy  lids  as  his 
hand  involuntarily  strayed  towards  that  letter  in  his 
pocket. 

"Have  you,  now?"  said  the  publisher. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  dreamily,  then  added,  alertly 
enough,  "And  I'm  going  to  make  good  up  to  three 
hundred  thousand  copies  this  time,  you  see  if  I  don't." 

The  publisher  whistled  mildly. 

"But  I  am.  This  Colon  scheme  of  mine,  the  fusion 
and  the  assimilation  of  the  native  and  the  foreign 
races,  the  differing  potentialities  of  passion,  custom, 
prejudice — all  that  will  work  out  tremendously,  and 
it  '11  be  new,  new,  do  you  see?" 

"Yes,"  assented  the  publisher,  "but  if  you've  got 
to  handicap  your  next  book  with  a  year's  absence 
from  both  Europe  and  America,  I'm  not  too  sure." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I  mean  you're  too  popular  a  man — with  the 
women  readers,  say" — he  laughed  a  little — "to  ab- 
sent yourself  with  impunity  for  so  long  a  time.  You 
ought  to  keep  handsome  Sidney  Conningsby  in  evi- 
dence. Catch  on?" 

"Pshaw!" 

"Truth.  When  a  man  novelist -poet -lecturer's  got 
the  hang  of  things  that  you  have  with  the  public, 
when  he's  achieved  almost  as  much  popularity  as  a 
first-class,  bang-up,  sword-play  matine"e  idol  actor, 
my  dear  sir,  he's  bound  to  live  up  to  his  reputation  or 
else—" 

84 


JUDITH'S  PAST 

"  But  the  new  book,  the  Colon  book,  will  exceed  all 
my  reputation,"  interrupted  the  author. 

"Fudge!  People  want  you;  want  to  look  at  you, 
hear  you,  watch  you.  They  only  read  your  novels 
because  you  wrote  them." 

"Well,  what  then?  Suppose  they  do?"  he  in- 
quired, rather  beset  between  the  sugar-coated  slap  at 
his  vanity  as  author  and  his  vanity  as  man. 

"But  in  a  year!"  cried  the  publisher. 

"Well,  in  a  year,  what?"  asked  the  writer. 

"You  will  come  back  to  find  yourself  forgotten!" 
This  slap  had  no  saccharine  coat. 

"No!  Not  when  they  read  that  Isthmus  story," 
excitedly  and  with  determination. 

"They  won't  read  it,"  inflexibly. 

"I'll  take  a  gambler's  chance  on  it.  Colon  lures 
me.  I've  got  the  heroine  all  to  my  hand,  a  creature 
of  fire  and  wonder  and  beauty — and  a  plot!" 

"All  very  good,"  retorted  the  obdurate  publisher. 
"I  don't  doubt  all  that,*but  what  we  want  is  readers." 

"Don't  you  want  to  sign  for  it?"  Conningsby  asked, 
in  that  tone  wherein  lurks  the  ever  handy  "other  pub- 
lishing house." 

"Of  course,  we  do.  But  cut  down  to  six  months, 
Sid,  and  get  back  to  New  York  with  a  rousing  lecture 
and  some  new  fads  if  you  can,  to  spring  on  the  public 
before  we  bring  it  out." 

Conningsby  looked  up  and  laughed.  He  did  not 
speak  any  more;  he  was  wildly  impatient  to  read  the 
first  letter  he  had  ever  had  from  Judith  Harriman. 
Then  the  publisher  stalked  out  of  the  library,  the 
author  pulled  out  his  letter  and  read  it.  He  smiled, 
those  thin,  flexible  lips  of  his  curving  into  lines  of  al- 

85 


THE  UNDEFILED 

most  supercilious  mirthfulness.  Yet  there  was  anxi- 
ety enough  in  his  mind,  too;  he  keenly  felt,  and  might 
probably  always  feel  at  any  distance,  the  thrilling  per- 
sonality of  the  girl  he  loved,  the  strange,  positive,  if 
quite  incoherent,  charm  of  her  mutability,  her  in- 
stability, it  might  be  called ;  but  he  flattered  himself  at 
the  same  moment  that  he,  and  he  alone,  could  trans- 
form it  into  permanence.  He  cut  short  his  visit  at  the 
publisher's,  hurried  to  town,  'phoned  Judith  he  would 
be  with  her  that  evening,  saw  his  lecturing-tour  agent 
and  an  editor  or  two,  did  a  bit  of  shopping,  and 
reached  the  Gray  Fox  by  9.30  P.M.  He  did  not  see 
Judith  that  night,  however.  But  the  next  morning  he 
did;  moreover,  he  carried  his  point.  Conningsby  had 
always  carried  his  points,  especially  with  women.  In 
this  particular  instance  he  had  an  unsuspected  ally  in 
the  person  of  the  Duke  de  Montre'sor. 

Miss  Harriman  had  been  acquainted  with  the  Duke, 
as  has  been  made  known  earlier,  for  some  consider- 
able time.  She  was  more  than  familiar  with  his  aim 
and  his  methods ;  the  former  was  stupendous,  the  lat- 
ter were  unscrupulous.  She  knew  very  well  that  this 
dear  Gaston  would  not  stop  at  the  present  point,  and, 
moreover,  that  he  had  a  very  positive  right  on  his 
side  of  the  question  between  them.  This  girl,  sit- 
ting in  her  room  in  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  apparently 
adjusting  a  pair  of  bows  on  a  pair  of  slippers,  was 
otherwise  occupied,  too,  than  in  glancing  at  the  let- 
ter, as  she  did  now  and  then,  which  Conningsby  had 
just  sent  up  to  her  on  his  arrival  from  New  York. 
She  was  balancing  the  possibilities  of  a  future  as  Con- 
ningsby's  wife  against  the  probabilities  in  connection 
with  the  Duke  de  Montre'sor.  Conningsby's  letter  was 

86 


JUDITH'S  PAST 

an  impassioned  appeal  and  enforcement  of  his  suit. 
Its  subtlety  and  exquisitely  adjusted  appreciation 
charmed  her  very  much.  There  was,  to  be  sure,  a 
middle  course  between  Conningsby  and  the  Duke's 
plans.  That  middle  course  was  the  one  she  had  been 
pursuing  ever  since  she  and  his  Grace  and  one  other 
had  parted  company  in  Languedoc.  It  was  writing 
stories  for  the  magazines,  mostly  very  successful,  and 
lately  her  talks  and  recitations  before  the  summer- 
school  of  Professor  Saunders.  The  middle  course  was 
antagonistic  to  her:  she  hated  her  pen,  she  hated 
"talks"  and  "recitations"  almost  as  much  as  do 
most  of  the  patrons  of  such  so-called  entertainments; 
she  was  tired,  she  was  frightened,  she  was  a  fugitive 
from  what  might  be  called  the  law.  The  law,  if  it 
could  only  lay  hands  on  her,  might  grip  her  very 
tightly  and  take  her  back  where  she  did  not  want  to 
go  and  enforce  upon  her  things  she  did  not  wish 
to  possess.  She  read  Conningsby's  letter  over  once 
more.  Words  in  it  thrilled  to  her  heart.  Surely,  she 
must  love  him;  she  did,  certainly.  Why  not?  That 
man  long  ago  in  Languedoc?  Why!  she  was  an 
idiot  to  remember  him,  one  who  would  not  recall 
her  should  they  meet  —  and  if  he  did,  what  then  ? 
Absurd.  A  mere  whim  of  the  recollection,  to  be  for- 
ever dismissed  now,  and  in  its  stead  the  dark  eyes 
and  faultless  lashes  of  Conningsby.  Yes,  to  be  sure, 
this  was  indeed  love.  Love!  Ah,  he  was  tender,  true, 
gentle,  compelling.  A  genius  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Well, 
she  had  not  fancied  geniuses;  but  then,  one  can't  have 
quite  all  one  wants.  He  did  not  even  wish  her  to 
write  any  more.  He  wanted  merely  to  be  permitted 
to  worship  her.  That  was  delicious.  He  wished  to 

8? 


THE  UNDEFILED 

take  her  to  Colon  directly  after  their  marriage,  so  this 
letter  said;  Colon,  an  inaccessible,  unusual  place.  Yes, 
that  would  be  very  delightful. 

Beatrice  Bond  now  tapped  at  the  door,  and  came  in 
to  find  her  friend  still  sewing  bows  on  slippers. 

"Not  on  yet?"  she  exclaimed. 

Judith  shook  her  head  and  laid  down  both  slippers 
and  bows. 

"But  he's  waiting  for  you." 

"Who?" 

"Mr.  Conningsby.  Didn't  you  know  he  had  come 
back  to-night  ?" 

"Yes.     I  can't  see  him  now,"  lazily. 

"But,  Judith!"  in  surprise. 

"What?" 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  wild  to  see  him." 

"Oh  no,  I  leave  all  that  for  him,  the  wild;  I  am 
tame." 

"I  half  believe  you  don't  care  for  him." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  laughing. 

"  But  how  can  you  help  it  ?    He  is  so — so  charming." 

"I  suppose  he  is.     You  like  him?" 

"I?  Oh,  as  one  likes  the  pictures  of  Botticelli  or 
Van  Dyke,  the  poems  of  Baudelaire  or  Swinburne;  he 
is  so  picturesque."  She  was  sometimes  clever,  and 
she  had  read  books.  She  lowered  her  white  lids  over 
the  great  flaming,  flash  of  her  pale  eyes. 

Judith  laughed. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

"Because  I  envy  you." 

"Me?    You  envy  me?"  asked  Beatrice. 

"Yes,  your  enthusiasm.  I  have  it,  oh  yes,  some- 
where, but  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  reach  it." 

88 


JUDITH'S  PAST 

"He  will  reach  it,"  the  blond  girl  said,  tremulously, 
devotionally.  Then  she  added :  "  He  is  waiting  for  you, 
I  am  sure,  in  the  hall." 

"  He  must  wait  until  morning." 

"  Shall  I — would  you  like  me  to  go  and  tell  him  so  ?" 

"If  you  choose.  I  think  I  should  leave  him  to  find 
it  out,  but  you  must  do  as  you  choose.  You  are  good- 
hearted." 

"Yes,"  she  laughed  a  little,  " I  will  go  and  tell  him." 
She  went. 

Conningsby  was  not  in  the  hall.  He  was  out  on  the 
piazza,  vainly  hoping  that  his  letter  would  fetch  Judith 
to  him.  He  thought,  when  in  the  darkness  he  heard 
Beatrice's  gown  and  footfall,  that  Judith  was  surely 
coming,  but  quite  in  time  to  avoid  catastrophe  he  per- 
ceived his  mistake.  He  started. 

"It's  only  me,"  the  girl  said. 

"Oh  yes,  good-evening.     How  do  you  do?" 

"I  am  well.  Miss  Judith  can't  see  you  until  to- 
morrow." 

"She  is  not  ill?"  anxiously. 

"No,  only  tired  ever  since  that  night  in  the  woods." 

He  was  pacing  up  and  down,  quite  regardless  of  her 
presence.  In  the  dim  light  she  was  eagerly  caressing 
the  soft  hat  which  he  had  left  lying  on  a  chair. 

"It's  a  beautiful  night,"  the  girl  said,  lamely. 

"Oh!     Yes,  yes;  to  be  sure." 

"I  am  going  away  soon — to-morrow." 

"Indeed!"  He  pulled  himself  together  with  an 
effort.  "Back  to  the  studio  in  town,  I  suppose;  back 
to  your  fascinating  work?"  He  wondered  incident- 
ally, why  the  devil  she  didn't  go  back  in  the  house 
and  let  him  alone. 

89 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"No."  Her  voice  was  sad;  the  cadence  actually 
struck  him  amid  his  thoughts  of  his  sweetheart. 

"  No!  How's  that  ?"  He  sighed  audibly,  wishing  she 
would  go  away.  There  is  no  torment  equal  to  that  of 
wanting  to  be  alone  with  your  thoughts  of  the  one  you 
love  and  having  to  entertain  the  conversation  of  some 
indifferent  person. 

Beatrice  was  very  clever.  She  knew  what  Con- 
ningsby  was  thinking,  but  just  then,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, she  didn't  care. 

"  I  am  going  abroad  to  study  more.  Won't  you 
say  good-bye?"  She  dropped  his  hat  and  took  a  step 
nearer  to  him,  very  near  to  him,  in  fact. 

"But,"  he  was  going  to  say,  "you  are  not  leaving 
to-night?"  when  something  in  her  face,  which  he  now 
looked  at  for  the  first  time,  stopped  him  short,  stopped 
the  extended  hand,  and  made  him  silent. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his  in  the  dim  light;  a  little 
freeze  blew  a  tress  of  her  golden  hair  against  his 
cheek,  a  breath  from  her  pink  lips  floated  to  his  lips, 
his  mouth  was  laid  on  hers  in  a  kiss,  fine,  soft,  linger- 
ing. To  the  man  it  was  one  of  those  incidents  which  are 
almost  inexplicably  interesting ;  as  evanescent  and  irre- 
sponsible as  shooting-stars;  emotions  without  thoughts, 
without  backgrounds,  causes,  effects,  or  remembrance. 
To  the  girl — well,  to  the  girl,  just  all.  Neither  of  them 
spoke  a  word.  There  was  not  a  thought  of  disloyalty 
to  Judith  in  it.  Neither  had  the  girl  at  that  crisis  an 
idea  of  disloyalty  to  her  friend  from  herself  or  from  him. 
She  had  something  to  take  away  with  her  which  Judith 
would  never  miss,  and  which  Sidney  Conningsby  would 
soon  forget.  Beatrice  knew  that  perfectly-  well. 

She  was  correct  enough.  In  the  morning,  when 
90 


JUDITH'S  PAST 

Conningsby  finally  saw  Judith,  he  never  even  remem- 
bered Miss  Bond's  existence;  few  men,  when  with  Miss 
Harriman,  remembered  any  other  member  of  her  sex. 
He  succeeded  in  persuading  her ;  he  was  more  her  slave 
than  ever;  in  fact,  he  forgot  himself  all  the  time  now; 
he  was  more  convincing,  more  true  and  resolute.  He 
said  he  would  fulfil  her  every  longing.  She  was  not 
clear  about  what  her  longings  were.  She  was  one  of 
those  who  would  need  the  man  to  discover  and  min- 
ister to  them,  both  in  a  breath,  perhaps.  She  had 
some  little  compunctions  as  she  listened  to  his  plans, 
hopes,  dreams;  he  had  told  her  his  whole  life  from  be- 
ginning to  end  before  this. 

So  that  day,  when  the  ring  he  had  brought  from 
town  for  her  was  shining  on  the  finger  that  had  lately 
boasted  the  turquoise  circlet  now  on  Travers's  watch- 
chain,  she  said,  shyly,  looking  up  at  him: 

"I  must  tell  you  all  about  my  past." 

Conningsby 's  eyes  flashed  down  into  hers,  search- 
ingly,  curiously,  and  in  anticipated  gratification  of  a 
long-felt  greed  for  this  knowledge.  He  had  been  quite 
clever  enough  not  to  ask  for  the  information  earlier; 
he  estimated  his  future  wife  very  accurately  in  many 
ways.  But,  as  her  own  eyes  now  met  the  glance  of 
her  lover's,  she  experienced  one  of  those  strange  re- 
vulsions, or  revolts  they  might  be  called,  which  were 
part  of  her  mental  constitution.  On  the  instant,  with- 
out argument  or  reasoning,  she  decided  not  to  tell  Con- 
ningsby anything  at  all  about  her  past — anything,  that 
is,  about — the  Duke. 

She  laughed  a  little  as  she  spoke.  "My  mother — 
Mrs.  Faxon  would  be  so  relieved  to  know  I  really  had 
,one — my  mother  is  alive;  she  lives  in  France;  we  are 

7  91 


THE  UNDEFILED 

not  sympathetic;  I  came  over  here,  where  I  was  born, 
to  make  my  way.  I  managed  to  make  it." 

"Decidedly  Your  stories  are  wonderfully  clever; 
not  always  accurate," — he  smiled  a  bit  in  indulgent 
superiority — "but  so  abounding  in  intuition  and  in- 
dividuality that  mere  vulgar  accuracy  goes  by  the 
board."  He  kissed  her  beautiful  mouth  with  as  much 
admiration  as  passion. 

"My  father  died  many  years  ago  when  I  was  very 
little;  he  was  an  American  of  remote  French  de- 
scent. My  mother  is  an  American;  she  was  a  Miss 
Brownell,  of  Covington,  Kentucky.  I  was  educated 
abroad,  and  have  lived  there  most  of  my  life."  Miss 
Harriman  came  to  her  period.  Conningsby  regarded 
her  eagerly,  anxiously,  almost  breathlessly. 

"That's  all,"  she  said,  sarcastically,  laughing  up  at 
him,  and  laying  one  pretty  forefinger  in  the  cleft  of  his 
chin. 

"Oh!"  He  gave  an  unconscious  sigh  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  then  added,  with  a  smile:  "And  the  Duke 
de  Montre*sor?" 

"Oh,  I  had  almost  forgotten  him.  One  of  the  in- 
numerable men  every  girl  always  has  wanting  her  to 
marry  them." 

"Ah,  yes,  there  must  have  been  many,  many. 
You  are  a  woman  to  have  had  scores  at  your  feet  and 
ready  to  go  to  hell  for  the  heaven  of  one  of  your 
smiles." 

She  nodded.  "So  some  of  them  said;  they  didn't 
all  put  it  in  the  same  way.  There  is  a  kind  of  variety, 
but  the  aim  is  identical."  She  laughed  merrily.  He 
made  to  kiss  her  again  and  again,  but  she  would  not 
have  it,  pouted,  rose,  crossed  the  room  away  from 

92 


JUDITH'S  PAST 

him,  looked  out  the  window,  and  kept  her  back  to 
him  for  a  while. 

"You  do  not  wish  me  to  kiss  you,  then?" 

She  laughed.  Miss  Harriman  was  always  laughing. 
"No,"  she  answered,  now  glancing  at  him  over  her 
shoulder,  "I  don't  want  you  to."  A  sudden  wave  of 
feeling  flooded  her  very  soul;  that  mysterious  craving 
to  love  and  to  express  love  which  is  an  underlying 
principle  in  the  greatest  women's  lives.  It  leads  to 
grievous  mistakes ;  it  makes  for  the  treading  of  many 
false  paths,  but  in  the  end,  when  the  man  of  men  is 
met,  it  opens  to  him  the  gates  of  paradise.  She  cross- 
ed back  to  her  lover  and  stood  near  him. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  don't  want  you  to  kiss  me?" 
she  whispered,  kneeling  down  beside  him.  * 

Conningsby  whispered  back,  "No,"  while  his  arms 
enfolded  her.  "Why?  Will  you  tell  me?" 

She  laid  her  mouth  on  his  for  a  second,  then  for 
longer,  longer.  "Because,"  she  answered,  "I  wanted 
to — kiss — you."  And  she  was  content,  believing  that 
this  was  love,  life,  all. 

A  little  later  on  they  were  married.  The  Faxons 
were  at  the  wedding,  and  a  few  other  desultory  people, 
as  acquaintances  on  Judith's  side.  Buck  Grant  did 
not  go.  Beatrice  Bond  had  left  for  Europe.  But  the 
big  church  was  jammed  with  Conningsby 's  friends, 
admirers,  adorers ;  brilliant  with  hundreds  of  girls  and 
women  who  considered  him  "the  handsomest  man  in 
the  world,"  who  envied  the  bride  and  voted  her  either 
"too  lovely  for  anything"  or  "very  nice,  of  course," 
according  to  their  dispositions.  Dozens  of  newspaper 
men  and  women,  critics,  novelists,  essayists,  editors, 
publishers,  members  of  the  fashionable,  the  half-fash- 

93 


THE  UNDEFILED 

ionable,  the  unfashionable,  and  all  the  other  worlds 
rushed  and  scrambled  to  the  celebrity's  wedding; 
stared  the  bride  out  of  countenance,  tore  her  flower- 
garlands  to  pieces  for  souvenirs,  stood  up  on  the  pew- 
seats  to  view  her  at  the  altar;  fought  with  each  other 
for  scraps  of  her  tulle  veil  and  flounces ;  all  on  account, 
one  may  be  sure,  of  Sidney  Conningsby. 

Later  on,  at  the  reception,  the  bridegroom's  publish- 
er, after  congratulating  him  in  due  form,  whispered: 

"Now,  if  you  only  had  a  novel  ready  to  come  out, 
our  fortune  would  be  made." 

"  Wait  for  the  Colon  book,"  retorted  the  bridegroom. 

"No,  sir;  no  chances  taken  here.  We've  got  a  big 
new  edition  of  your  works  advertised  and  on  sale  to- 
day in  every  book  and  department  store  throughout 
the  country.  Sidney  Conningsby  is  not  getting  mar- 
ried to  a  beautiful  girl  every  day  in  the  year.  Your 
wedding  will  boom  your  books  better  than  we  ever 
could." 

"Colon  will  surprise  you,"  insisted  Conningsby. 

Presently  they  sailed  in  the  Vigilancia  for  Colon. 


VIII 

BOB,    BUCK,    AND    THE    BABY 

CONNINGSBY  wrote  his  novel  about  Colon  in 
Colon.  They  remained  on  and  near  the  Isthmus 
for  a  little  over  a  year.  The  climate  and  the  life  both 
had  their  effect  upon  Judith;  her  health  was  broken, 
and  much  of  her  fine,  vivid  strength  was  gone.  A 
little  child  lay  in  her  arms  when  her  husband,  by  no 
means  realizing  that  the  South  American  wedding- 
journey  had  sapped  his  wife's  health,  decided  that,  the 
book  being  virtually  done,  they  would  return  to  the 
United  States.  They  did  so,  and  were  soon  settled  in 
a  beautiful  and  expensive  apartment  in  one  of  the 
large  hotels  on  the  upper  West  Side;  and  every  day 
the  little  baby  was  taken  to  the  Park  by  its  nurse  in 
its  green  carriage,  and  every  day  the  pale  mother 
watched  for  it  to  come  back  into  her  arms. 

The  celebrity's  income  from  his  books  had  not 
grown  during  the  year's  absence;  it  had  decreased 
perceptibly.  And  this  was  bad,  because  he  was  one 
of  those  who  had  not  had  a  thought  towards  amass- 
ing money,  but  whose  confidence  in  his  own  steady 
ability  to  make  plenty  of  it  always  was  unbounded. 
Never  had  this  confidence  been  greater  than  when 
Conningsby,  matured  a  trifle,  filled  out,  more  stal- 
wart, more  formed,  and  more  informed  than  before 

95 


THE  UNDEFILED 

his  marriage,  stepped  back  into  the  old  fascinating 
routine  of  New  York  life  —  or,  rather,  when  he  es- 
sayed to  step  back  into  it.  Never  had  he  felt  as 
buoyant,  as  light  of  heart,  as  full  of  power,  purpose, 
and  the  positivism  of  achievement.  But  the  old  set 
seemed  to  have  become  disjointed  some  way;  the  old 
cliques  and  cronies  had  disbanded ;  this  one  was  mar- 
ried, that  one  gone  abroad,  the  other  in  Egypt,  some 
one  else  in  the  Philippines,  others  in  Japan,  China, 
Russia.  Whew!  what  wanderers  we  Americans  are, 
to  be  sure!  Judith,  as  has  been  said,  had  no  friends 
in  her  native  land.  The  Faxons  came  nearest  to  it, 
and  they,  of  course,  called.  The  bevies  of  women 
who  had  worshipped  Conningsby  had  found  another 
altar  before  which  to  kneel;  indeed,  several  altars. 
The  lecture  -  agents  no  longer  waited  on  him  with 
routes  and  tours  beguilingly  laid  out,  and  check- 
books at  his  service.  Editors  of  magazines  did  not 
seem  to  recognize  that  he  had  returned;  his  own 
publishers,  even,  while  pleasant  in  their  welcome — 
publishers  are  always  pleasant  in  their  welcome  of 
any  one  who  can  handle  a  pen — still  did  not  display 
that  warmth  in  their  manner  which  Conningsby 
thought  he  had  a  right  to  expect.  They  read  the 
great  Colon  novel  in  three  days  and  reported  on  it  as, 
"a  great  story,  but  one  they  could  not  handle  to 
either  the  author's  or  their  own  advantage."  The 
author  was  furious.  He  vowed  he  "would  show  them 
things  before  he  was  much  older;  that  they  were  pre- 
posterous fools,  etc." 

Now,  when  an  author  sets  out  on  an  expedition 
intended  to  show  things  to  publishers,  he  generally 
has  a  hard  time  of  it.  Publishers  do  know  their  own 

96 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

business  wonderfully  well.  They  have  what  may  be 
termed  the  therapeutic  touch;  they  can  feel  the  pub- 
lic pulse  fairly  well ;  and,  more  to  the  point,  perhaps, 
there  is  usually  one  man,  at  least,  in  the  employ  of 
any  big  publishing  house,  who  can  feel  the  pulses  of 
the  authors.  This  man  knows  to  a  fraction  when  an 
author,  especially  an  author  of  fiction,  is  out  of  condi- 
tion or  in  prime  condition ;  waning,  growing,  or  merely 
standing  still  in  popular  favor.  It's  a  curious  faculty, 
built  upon  as  keen  powers  of  observation  and  as  lib- 
eral use  of  them  in  every  possible  direction,  as  each 
publishing  house  has  money  enough  to  buy  its  pulse- 
feeler  with. 

The  particular  keen  man  attached  to  Conningsby's 
publishing  house  said  to  his  chief: 

"Sidney  Conningsby's  run  out;  he's  superseded. 
We  can't  afford  to  print  his  stuff.  I  don't  quite  un- 
d'erstand  it,  but  the  manuscript  is  old-fashioned.  His 
style  is  still  wonderfully  good,  but  he's  stagnant;  he 
isn't  alive  any  more.  It's  a  singular  spectacle  that  in 
one  year — well,  then,  fifteen  months — a  man  that  the 
public  was  wild  about  should  have  sunk  into  quasi - 
obscurity." 

"Told  him  Colon  M  do  him  up,"  remarked  the 
senior  of  the  firm. 

"Bah!  it  isn't  Colon;  it's  Conningsby,"  exclaimed 
the  man  who  was  hired  to  feel  pulses.  "Conningsby 
was  too  cocksure  of  himself  and  the  public.  It  isn't 
that  he  hasn't  tried  in  this  Isthmus  story;  he  has  tried 
to  outdo  himself.  Some  men  can  achieve  that  thing. 
Sidney  isn't  one  of  them." 

"  What  '11  be  the  end  of  him,  I  wonder  ?"  queried  the 
junit>r  partner  of  the  house. 

97 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Hack,"  ejaculated  the  pulse-feeler,  as  he  left  the 
room  with  a  pile  of  fresh  novel  manuscripts  under  his 
arm. 

The  new  book  went  the  rounds  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba.  The  agents  had  it  here  and  in  England.  All 
the  South  American  short-stories  he  had  brought  back 
with  him  went  begging.  No  one  could  or  would  say 
precisely  or  concisely  why,  but  the  fact  remained. 
Such  things,  after  all,  seem  to  be  in  the  air,  and  not 
in  the  concrete  things  themselves.  Absence,  it  would 
appear,  in  some  cases  is  a  first  factor  towards  forget- 
fulness.  Conningsby,  accustomed  to  adulation,  ac- 
claim, the  smiles  of  women,  and  the  envy  of  men, 
found  himself  stranded,  in  a  certain  sense,  in  the  very 
New  York  that  had  once  adored  him.  But  he  did 
not,  would  not,  recognize  this.  The  little  plank  re- 
maining to  him,  upon  which  he  stood,  he  stood  upon 
defiantly,  obtusely,  bent  upon  rewresting  from  the  peo- 
ple what  they  once  had  cast  at  his  feet  in  willingness. 

Very  soon  the  apartment  in  the  fashionable  apart- 
ment-hotel had  to  be  given  up,  and  the  Conningsbys 
moved  into  a  little  flat,  still  on  the  West  Side,  but 
farther  up-town.  They  could  keep  but  one  servant, 
and  it  now  devolved  upon  Judith  to  take  the  baby 
out  in  the  Park.  She  was  not  strong.  The  baby,  it 
is  true,  was  a  tiny  one,  but  the  mother  could  scarcely 
lift  it  in  and  out  of  the  baby  -  carriage.  Once  in  a 
while  Dorothy  Faxon  came  up  and  helped  her.  So 
did  Ernest,  and  fetched  toys  for  the  baby,  who  never 
noticed  them,  and  only  lay  very  still  and  white  on  its 
pillows,  sometimes  smiling,  oftener  with  a  curious, 
drawn  expression  on  its  tiny  face.  It  looked  strange- 
ly, almost  ludicrously,  like  Conningsby  when  it  lay  on 

98 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

the  cheap  sofa  in  the  parlor,  where  Conningsby  had 
his  desk.  He  was  then  occupied  in  revising  the  Colon 
novel,  rewriting  it,  in  fact,  from  beginning  to  end, 
after  long  consultation  with  a  half-hearted  firm  who 
said  "they  might  undertake  it  if  he  did  so."  When 
Conningsby  then  looked  over  at  the  baby  or  stopped 
to  pat  its  cheek  or  kiss  it,  the  likeness  was  painful,  be- 
cause the  phase  of  unconscious,  increasing  trouble,  was 
identical  on  the  faces  of  father  and  child. 

One  day,  when  Judith  had  managed  to  take  the 
baby  to  the  Park  herself  alone,  she  sat  on  a  bench  in 
the  shade  and  looked  at  the  stretch  of  green  before 
her,  at  the  little  lake  in  the  sunshine.  No  one  was 
about  but  the  squirrels  running  up  over  the  baby's 
blanket  to  eat  the  crumbs  of  its  crackers.  Then  she 
heard  a  footstep,  the  quick,  resolute  tread  of  one  who 
knew  wood-paths  well,  and  in  a  moment  Buck  Grant 
was  near  her.  He  would  have  passed  her  by;  he  did 
not  know  but  that  she  was  still  in  Colon.  Had  he 
thought  of  her  he  would  have  fancied  her  as  surround- 
ed by  every  luxury  and  ease.  But  she  put  out  her 
hands  and  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprised  pleasure — 
an  incoherent  bid  for  a  sympathetic  presence. 

"You!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes." 

"And — "  The  cowboy  priest  took  his  hat  off  and 
laid  a  reverent,  almost  idolatrous,  hand  over  the  baby's 
head. 

Judith  nodded  with  a  smile  where  the  tears  shone 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  smile. 

"Yours?"  he  finished. 

She  sighed,  and  the  warm,  red  blood  rushed  over  her 
face  as  it  had  not  done  in  many  weeks. 

99 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"  Conningsby  ?"  Grant  asked,  with  rather  a  falling 
inflection,  for  it  seemed  to  him  then  that  this  baby's 
father  must  be  dead  or  it  and  the  mother  would  not 
be  in  the  forlorn  condition  which  all  things  denoted. 

"He  is  very  well,  thank  you." 

Buck  Grant  thought  swiftly,  "  Why  wasn't  Connings- 
by, then,  wheeling  that  baby's  carriage?" 

Judith  went  on:  "We  came  back  some  time  ago. 
The  new  book  does  not  seem  to  suit  the  publishers ;  it 
is  being  entirely  rewritten.  Mr.  Conningsby  is  so 
busy  with  it  that  he  has  not  time  for  anything  else, 
except  evenings,  and  then  he  must  go  about  a  bit. 
An  author  must  keep  up  with  his  social  pace,  you 
know." 

"No,"  returned  the  clergyman,  "don't  know  a  thing 
about  it.  But  you're  looking  ill." 

"Oh  no;  the  climate  didn't  agree  with  me  down 
there.  But  I  shall  be  better  soon." 

That  was  what  she  said  to  every  one  when  they  told 
her  she  was  pale,  or  when  she  was  obliged  to  decline 
the  invitations  which  she  urged  her  husband,  and 
which  he  deemed  best  for  professional  reasons,  to  ac- 
cept. 

The  baby  now  began  to  stir  and  fret,  and  the  mother 
rose  from  the  bench  to  push  the  little  green  carriage 
up  and  down. 

"Here,"  cried  the  cowboy  priest,  "please,  now. 
I'd  esteem  it  a  privilege,  I  would,  to  trundle  it  about." 
He  took  hold  of  the  cart,  and  her  tired  hands  fell  at 
her  sides. 

"Now,"  pursued  Buck  Grant,  surveying  her, 
"whereabouts  do  you  live,  if  you  don't  mind  telling 
me." 

100 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

"Oh  no,  certainly  not."  She  told  him  the  street 
and  number,  only  a  few  blocks  away. 

"I'm  on  my  way  up  to  the  cathedral  to  see  Dr. 
Tuthill.  I've  got  a  couple  of  hours  handy  to  myself, 
though.  I  was  going  to  stroll  about  here — I  hate  the 
streets,  you  know — and  just  size  up  my  next  Sunday's 
sermon.  Suppose  you  go  home  and  let  me  trundle 
the  baby  around  while  I  think  out  the  yarn.  It  '11  be 
safe,  and" — his  voice  broke  a  very  little — "I'd  be  so 
plumb  happy  serving  you." 

"But — "  she  hesitated. 

"I'll  fetch  it  home  all  right.  No  need  to  worry 
about  that.  The  fresh  air  '11  do  it  good,  and  you  need 
the  rest  of  a  couch  and  a  darkened  room." 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"You're  good  to  me,"  she  said. 

"Shucks!  no."  Then  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  "It's 
you  who  are  good  to  me." 

"When  you  do  come," — she  faltered  just  here — "I 
can't  ask  you  to  stop  for  luncheon,  because  we — 

"Hush!"  he  exclaimed.  "Hush!  I  couldn't  stop, 
anyway.  I'm  engaged  to  take  the  mid-day  meal  with 
Dr.  Tuthill."  He  wasn't. 

She  left  him  with  the  baby  and  went  home,  while 
he  pushed  the  handsome  little,  dark -green  carriage 
across  to  more  frequented  paths  alongside  the  broad 
drive,  where  the  baby,  he  argued,  might  be  entertain- 
ed with  the  horses  and  traps  tooling  by.  He  could 
not  fix  his  mind  on  his  sermon  or  on  anything  except 
the  woman  whose  child  was  in  front  of  him.  His 
thoughts,  his  imaginations,  enwrapped  him  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  most  other  things,  when  suddenly  he  heard 
a  familiar  and  most  astounded  voice: 

101 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Buck!" 

He  looked  across  hastily  to  find  a  splendid  trap  and 
a  pair  of  spirited  blacks  being  pulled  up  beside  him. 

"Bob!" 

It  was  Bob  Travers,  who  surveyed  his  old  comrade 
with  an  expression  of  bewildered  amazement,  also  the 
unconscious  baby. 

He  indicated  the  infant  with  his  whip -handle,  and 
said:  "You  wheeling  a  kid!  Whose?"  He  fancied,  per- 
haps, Buck  had  got  married  on  the  quiet,  and  almost 
laughed. 

"  Hers,"  replied  the  clergyman,  and  there  was  such  an 
inflection  in  the  monosyllable  as  made  his  companion 
understand  at  once  that  this  baby  belonged  to  the 
girl  with  the  long  brown  hair,  the  girl  whom,  in  his 
fantasy,  he  had  pictured  as  her  of  Languedoc  and  her 
of  the  turquoise  ring. 

"  Oh!"  He  glanced  helplessly  at  his  horses.  "  Well, 
I  tell  you  what,  couldn't  you  leave  that  little  green 
machine  in  that  house  up  there  where  they  sell  milk 
and  ice-cream,  and  get  in  here  with  me,  and  let  me 
drive  you  and  it  for  an  hour  or  two  ?  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

"  Yes,"  Buck  said,  a  bit  doubtfully,  as  he  weighed 
the  possibilities  of  the  baby's  bursting  into  tears  if 
touched.  But  it  didn't.  He  tooled  it  up  the  hill,  left 
the  green  carriage  in  charge  of  the  woman  in  the 
rustic  cottage,  seized  the  baby,  returned  to  Bob,  and 
in  a  moment  more  was  seated  beside  his  friend,  hold- 
ing his  charge  cautiously  and  well  wrapped  in  its  pink 
blanket. 

"Fine  team!"  ejaculated  the  ex-plainsman,  his  eyes 
sparkling  as  he  looked  the  blacks  over. 

102 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

"Yes."  Bob  glanced  at  his  friend.  "I  say,"  he 
cried,  "give  me  the  kid  to  hold  and  you  drive.  I 
know  you're  spoiling  to  handle  them.  Can  see  it  in 
your  face."  They  made  a  timorous  exchange  of  baby 
and  reins,  and  Bob  Travers  did  not  find  it  at  all  neces- 
sary to  explain  that  he  had  longed  to  hold  that  baby 
in  his  arms.  It  was  the  very  first  baby  he  had  ever 
held,  and  the  strange,  warm  little  wight  thrilled  him. 
He  didn't  know  why,  he  did  not  seek  the  reason;  but 
it  pleased  and  satisfied  him  to  hold  it,  perhaps  in  a 
fashion  not  customary  to  babies  in  general,  but  this 
one  slept  on  through  its  vicissitudes. 

"What  fine  mouths!"  exclaimed  Buck.  Bob  was 
then  gazing  at  the  baby's  infinitesimal  mouth,  and  he 
wondered  for  a  second  why  Buck  put  it  in  the  plural. 

Then  he  answered,  "Yes,  fine;  oh!"  gasping  as  he 
recognized  the  application.  "I  bought  them  eight 
days  ago.  I  only  got  back  from  Russia  on  the  four- 
teenth. I  had  intended  wiring  you  to  come  down  this 
week." 

"Well,  how  are  things?"  Buck  asked. 

"Just  right.  Made  my  contracts  with  the  govern- 
ment at  St.  Petersburg  on  almost  my  own  terms,  and 
was  lucky,  too,  in  interesting  some  of  the  best  capi- 
talists there  and  in  Moscow  as  well  in  the  mines." 

"Good.     Piles  of  money?" 

"  Yes.  Whenever  you  want  any,  pard,  say  the  word. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it;  don't  know  what  I'm 
making  it  for.  It's  got  hold  of  me,  though,  and  I  keep 
on." 

"It's  your  occupation,  your  work,  Bob.  Every 
man's  got  to  work,  if  it's  only  at  putting  on  and  taking 
off  twenty  suits  of  clothes  a  day," 

103 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"That's  it,  I  suppose.  But  if  a  fellow  were  only 
working  for  some  one."  His  blue  eyes  fell  upon  the 
white  face  of  the  baby,  and  looking  at  its  fragile  feat- 
ures, he  saw,  as  it  were  in  a  mirage,  one  of  his  many 
phantasms,  the  girl  in  Languedoc. 

"  Marry,"  said  the  clergyman,  dryly. 

"Whom?"  asked  the  other,  laughing. 

"Some  nice  girl.     Lots  of  'em." 

"I  suppose  so.  When  I  meet  her,  I  will,  if  she'll 
have  me." 

"Who?" 

"Oh,  that  nice  girl  you  mentioned  just  now." 

"Never  seen  one  you  liked,  Bob?" 

"  Nothing  nearer  than  that  girl  in  France  I  told 
you  of." 

"Will-o'-the-wisp." 

"Yes,  pretty  much." 

"Ever  tried  to  find  her?" 

"No,  at  least,  yes,  over  there  I  did,  but  could  gain 
no  information." 

Buck  flecked  the  blacks,  and  as  they  pranced  the 
baby  waked  and  wailed. 

"Here,"  he  cried,  "give  it  to  me." 

"No,"  answered  Bob  Travers,  "I'll  keep  it.  I  can 
soothe  it.  I  know  I  can.  Its  eyes  are  the  color  of 
the  girl's  in  Languedoc." 

The  clergyman  laughed  aloud,  while  the  sickly  little 
baby,  cuddled  closer  in  Travers 's  arms,  soon  stopped 
its  feeble  crying,  and  returned  to  sleep. 

"I've  had  to  take  new  offices,  bigger  ones,"  said 
Travers.  "  Have  a  lot  of  clerks  and  a  couple  of  type- 
writers." 

"Well,  the  more  you  have,  and  do,  and  expand,  the 
104 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

better  for  you.  You're  one  of  the  chaps  who  abso- 
lutely requires  plenty  of  things  to  spread  yourself  on 
and  in." 

"Reckon  I  am." 

"It  used  to  be  mines,  pistols,  ponies,  round-ups, 
the  ranches,  and  the  placers." 

"Now,"  interrupted  Bob,  "it's  mines,  railways, 
trotters,  racers,  and  a  yacht." 

"Got  a  yacht?"  keenly. 

"Yes,  going  to  take  you  the  Mediterranean  trip 
pretty  soon." 

Buck  smiled,  and  each  man's  glance  rested  on  the 
baby,  each  man's  thought  was  how  much  good  the 
Mediterranean  trip  would  do  it. 

"Besides,  Buck,  boy,  don't  grin,  but  I  am  in  it  for 
society,  too!" 

"Why  not?"  returned  the  priest.  "You  were  born 
to  the  purple.  Your  blood's  as  blue  and  as  red  as  it 
runs.  Your  folks  were  gentle,  'way  back  somewheres 
in  the  fifteenth  century ;  gentle  and  gallant  and  brave, 
the  men  of  your  line,  and  the  women.  Why  shouldn't 
you  revert  to  the  best  we've  got  now,  eh?  No  court 
here,  no  king,  but  queens  by  the  dozens,  and  I  reckon 
Bob  Travers  is  about  fit  to  stand  up  with  any  of  'em!" 

Bob  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

VNo,  old  fellow,  I'm  not.  I'm  awkward  at  the 
game,  and  I  know  it.  There  are  a  thousand,  seems  to 
me  a  million,  little  things  woven  into  the  essences  of 
modern'  life  which  I  haven't  the  hang  of.  Corre- 
spondence, cards,  the  Lord  knows  what!  Besides, 
I've  no  time,  no  time  for  it.  I  blunder  along  some- 
how, but  I  know  I'm  like  a  bull  in  a  china -shop  at 
least  twice  in  every  twenty-four  hours." 

105 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Ah,  no.  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter  with  the 
private  -  secretary  stunt  ?  Can't  that  pair  of  type- 
writers help  you  out  a  bit?" 

"No,  they're  office  women.  What  do  they  know 
about  the  amenities  and  fine  scales  of  social  inter- 
changes in  the  life  of  New  York?  Nothing." 

"I  see.     Find  some  girl  who  does." 

"If  I  could,"  he  answered,  doubtfully. 

"Advertise." 

"Yes,  and  be  besieged  by  all  the  unemployed  and 
highly  educated  young  women  in  the  town." 

"There's  no  other  way,  then,  but  to  marry." 

Bob  laughed.  "That  would  be  a  reason  for  marry- 
ing! As  good,  perhaps,  as  many  another.  I'll  think 
over  that  advertising  dodge,  though,  for  I've  got  to 
have  some  one.  Would  a  young  man  do,  think?"  he 
inquired,  tentatively. 

"  No.  I  take  it— don't  know  much  about  it,  though 
— that  it  needs  a  woman's  hand  to  steer  the  craft 
you're  tackling  in  that  sea." 

The  baby  stirred,  and  Bob  proceeded  to  hush  it  with 
a  nautical  song ;  not  that  he  could  sing,  but  he  thought 
he  could,  and  this  edition  of  his  accomplishment  seemed 
to  satisfy  his  burden. 

"  Say,  Bob,"  Buck  presently  asked,  "why  in  thunder 
do  you  tackle  it,  anyway?" 

"What?"  responded  the  other  in  a  startled  tone,  for 
he  had  drifted  away  from  his  conversational  bearings, 
and  was  rocking  the  baby  on  the  bosom  of  the  Med- 
iterranean Sea  to  the  old  sea- tune  he  hummed. 

"The  social  life  of  New  York?" 

Travers  hesitated  a  full  minute.  Then  he  answered 
in  a  quiet,  solemn  way: 

106 


BOB,  BUCK,  AND  THE  BABY 

"Well,  Buck,  just  so's  to  be  ready  for — her — when 
I  meet  her,  if  I  ever  do." 

"I  see."  Their  eyes  met.  Buck  had  tooled  the 
blacks  back  to  the  vicinity  of  the  rustic  cottage.  He 
pulled  them  up,  the  two  men  exchanged  charges,  bade 
each  other  "  so-long."  The  clergyman  got  the  green 
carriage,  put  the  baby  in  it,  and  Bob  watched  him 
trundling  it  along  to  the  westward  exit  at  Ninety-sixth 
Street. 


IX 

TWO    GARDENIA    BLOSSOMS 

BEATRICE  BOND  came  back  to  America  about 
four  months  after  the  Conningsbys  had  moved 
into  the  little  West  Side  flat.  The  year  and  more  in 
Europe  had  broadened  her  out;  she  was  physically 
prettier  and  mentally  equipped  with  a  better  poise 
and  slightly  less  exuberance  in  her  manner.  As  to 
her  art,  she  had  progressed,  but  not  succeeded  in  do- 
ing anything  more  substantial  than  before  she  went. 
As  she  expressed  it,  she  "had  kept  her  head  above 
water,"  but  the  pleasures  and  the  income  of  the  fa- 
mous miniaturist  were  not  hers.  Her  aunt,  a  person 
of  ordinary  calibre,  and  much  disappointed  because  her 
niece  had  failed  to  marry,  occupied  the  top  flat  in  the 
house  where  the  Conningsbys  lived  on  the  first  floor. 
When  Beatrice  came  back  to  New  York  and  to  her 
aunt,  she  saw  the  name  Sidney  Conningsby  over  the 
letter-box,  and  her  heart  throbbed,  but  she  made  no 
sign.  For  days  and  weeks  these  three  people  went  in 
and  out  of  the  same  front  door,  daily  and  nightly,  and 
never  encountered,  until  finally  the  two  women  met, 
and  thereafter  saw  something  of  each  other.  Con- 
ningsby saw  Beatrice,  too,  and  remarked  her  im- 
provement in  personal  appearance,  but  he  did  not 
even  recollect  the  kiss  he  had  once  given  her.  One 

1 08 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

day  she  had  been  visiting  his  wife  and  had  just  left. 
When  she  left  she  had  shaken  hands  with  him  and 
glanced  up  into  his  face.  He  had  felt  the  adulation 
of  her  glance,  and  the  memory  of  the  touch  of  her 
palm  in  his  was  supple  and  agreeable  to  him.'  He 
looked  at  Judith ;  she  was  lying  on  the  couch  listlessly. 
She  said,  as  she  met  his  glance: 

"Well,  how  does  the  revision  come  on  to-day?" 

"Fairly.  I  wish  the  baby  did  not  cry  all  the  time. 
It  distracts  me  frightfully.  Oh,  if  there  were  only 
some  room  I  could  go  to  and  be  free  from  all  sounds." 
His  speech  was  not  querulous,  but  impatient. 

"I  know,"  she  replied,  sadly.  "It's  too  bad.  Baby 
does  cry  a  great  deal." 

"  If  I  only  had  the  money  to  hire  a  studio,  no  mat- 
ter how  small  a  one." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  hopelessly;  then  she  rose  and 
went  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He 
shook  it  off,  then  caught  it  up,  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 

"Ah,  Judith,  if  you  loved  me  as  I  once  thought  you 
would." 

"I.  told  you,"  she  replied,  "that  I  could  not  love." 
She  smiled  rather  pitifully.  Life  looked  rather  a 
blank  to  her  just  then. 

"But  you  do  love  me!"  he  cried,  regarding  her  with 
eyes  aghast. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course." 

"  Not  the  way  I  want  to  be  loved  ?" 

"I  suppose  not."  She  laughed.  "Now  I  must  go 
out  in  the  kitchen  and  get  the  tea  ready,  or  see  that 
Bridget  does  it." 

She  paused  at  the  door,  and  looked  back  at  him. 
109 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Never  mind,  dear;  perhaps  the  Colon  book  will  be  a 
big  success  after  all.  Beatrice  says  it  will." 

Something  in  her  husband's  attitude,  more  m  mind 
than  body,  kept  her  standing  still  at  the  door.  She 
knew  him  fairly  well,  and  she  knew  he  wished  to  say 
something  rather  important  to  her. 

"Well?"  she  interrogated,  finally. 

"If,"  he  hesitated  just  a  trifle — "if  you  only  could 
write  some  of  those  wonderfully  clever  stories  you 
used  to  write,  it — would — help." 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered,  and  then  went  off  to  the 
kitchen  and  to  the  baby,  who  began  to  cry. 

She  did  try  very  hard,  but  no  human  being  who  has 
not  tried  to  write  fiction  under  somewhat  similar  con- 
ditions can  even  imagine  what  the  process  is.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  it  racks  the  soul  and  the  flesh  as 
few  other  things  can.  She  tried  for  a  week  or  two  be- 
tween the  stabs  of  her  baby's  cries ;  then  one  day  she 
said  to  Conningsby,  who  always  greedily,  if  stealthily, 
watched  her  at  her  desk: 

"I've  tried;  it's  no  use." 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  fancied  you  had  one  done, 
perhaps  with  a  South  American  setting.  I  told  the 
editor  of  the  Atlas  Magazine  to  expect  one  from 
you." 

"It's  gone  away  from  me.  I  can't  do  it  any  more; 
it's  too  bad.  I'm  sorry." 

"  Well,  no  matter.  Cheer  up,  little  woman,  it  '11  all 
come  round  right."  He  spoke  confidently,  with  more 
vigor  than  she  had  heard  in  a  long,  long  time. 

"  Will  it?"  she  said,  darting  into  the  inner  room  to 
take  up  the  baby  and  try  to  hush  it  asleep. 

"Yes,  surely.  I've — "  The  father  took  the  child 
no 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

from  her  weak  arms,  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
shabby  room  with  it. 

"I've"  —  he  resumed—  "hired  that  little  box  of  a 
room  from  Beatrice  Bond's  aunt  for  a  studio."  He 
laughed,  ironically.  "Two  dollars  a  week,  and  up 
there  I  can  be  perfectly  quiet,  and  you  won't  be  so 
nervous  about  the  baby's  crying  when  I'm  at  home. 
There's  a  couch  in  the  place,  and  if  I'm  kept  out  very 
late  any  night  I  can  go  up  there  and  turn  in,  instead 
of  rousing  you  up  out  of  your  sleep  with  my  night-key 
and  that  squeaky  door." 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  She  was  not  thinking  much  of 
v/hat  her  husband  said.  She  was  thinking  of  the  baby, 
and  wishing  that  it  had  never  been  born,  or  that  it 
might  die,  which  may  or  may  not  be  regarded  as  un- 
womanly and  unnatural,  just  as  the  point  of  view  lies. 

She  knew  she  had  no  strength  or  health  left  to 
either  take  care  of  it  or  provide  some  one  else  to  do  so. 
She  saw  Conningsby's  gifts  ebbing  away  from  him. 
She  felt  that  this  forlorn  day  must  be  succeeded  by 
others  all  more  and  more  forlorn.  She  saw  an  end- 
less vista  of  bald,  sad  poverty,  wherein  her  child  could 
not  be  even  properly  clothed  and  fed,  far  less  main- 
tained, educated,  and  instructed.  For  herself  the 
mother  took  no  thought.  She  had  ceased  thinking  of 
herself,  save  as  a  half- worn-out  machine.  The  brill- 
iant, semi-erratic,  beautiful  Judith  Harriman  was  dor- 
mant then.  Beautiful  she  was,  but  not  with  the  old, 
splendid,  vivacious  beauty  of  her  girlhood.  Could  that 
ever  come  back?  Who  could  say? 

Conningsby  took  possession  of  the  box  of  a  room  in 
the  top  flat  that  very  evening,  sat  there  writing  up  to 
one  in  the  morning,  and  then  "turned  in"  on  the 

in 


THE  UNDEFILED 

couch.  He  actually  quit  the  novel,  wrote  two  fine 
short-stories  which  were  promptly  accepted  at  good 
prices,  and  the  wheels  seemed  oiled  to  a  temporary 
smoothness  in  the  first  flat. 

He  had  been  using  the  studio  for  about  six  weeks. 
He  had  often  met  Beatrice.  Her  work-room  adjoined 
his,  with  large,  locked  doors  between,  and  the  en- 
trance doors  to  each  room  were  next  to  each  other  in 
the  hall.  He  liked  to  meet  her  at  first.  It  was  a 
pleasing  little  episode  in  each  day  to  wonder  whether 
he  should  encounter  her  in  the  morning,  or  in  the  even- 
ing ;  whether  she  would  have  on  a  hat,  or  if  he  should 
see  her  lovely  light  hair,  always,  however,  with  its 
painful  black  bow — but  no  matter  about  the  black  bow 
— should  he  behold  in  her  light  and  yet  fire-full  eyes  the 
adulation  that  he  craved.  Beatrice  had  grown  wise 
and  reticent.  Sometimes  Conningsby  did  not  see  that 
look  in  her  eyes,  but  then  sometimes  he  did.  By^and- 
by  the  climb  up  to  his  studio  and  the  descent  from  it 
came  to  have  the  flavor  of  adventures  for  him.  Pres- 
ently the  swish  of  her  gown  on  the  bare  stairs  got  to 
be  a  music  in  his  ears ;  then  the  touch  of  her  garments 
as  they  passed  each  other  in  the  tiny  hallway;  the 
aromatic  scent  from  her  ribbons  thrilled  him;  he 
worked  with  a  splendid  ardor;  he  did  fine  work;  it 
told ;  he  knew  it  did ;  with  the  spur  and  lash  of  those 
pale  yet  flaming  eyes  he  was  whipped  into  such  form 
as  he  had  not  been  since  the  first  months  of  his  knowl- 
edge of  Judith  Harriman.  Then,  one  morning,  there 
came  a  timid  tap  at  his  studio  door.  He  said,  "Come 
in,"  without  turning  his  head.  He  supposed  it  to  be 
the  aunt.  It  was  the  niece. 

"  Might  I  borrow  one  of  your  inkstands  ?  Mine  is 
112 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

empty,  and  I  must  write  a  letter  of  business.  Aunt 
Mary  has  none." 

"Certainly."  He  did  not  spring  up  and  go  to  her. 
She  came  to  him.  Their  hands  met,  inadvertently, 
perhaps,  over  the  getting  and  giving  of  the  inkstand. 
There  was  a  pause,  during  which  his  hand  enclosed 
hers  softly  but  -tenaciously.  She  was  quite  motion- 
less, but  the  fire  in  her  eyes  flashed  and  she  trembled. 
She  did  not  raise  her  lids. 

He  put  his  other  arm  around  her  and  said:  "Won't 
you  look  at  me?" 

Their  eyes  met.  Each  sighed  deeply.  She  with- 
drew herself,  laid  his  hand  gently  away  from  her,  took 
the  inkstand,  said,  "Thank  you  for  the  loan  of  this," 
and  went  back  to  her  own  work-room. 

Beatrice  Bond  was  almost  deliriously  happy.  She 
was  happy  without  thought,  without  reminiscence, 
forecast,  or  realization.  She  had  in  mind  neither  the 
miserable  agonies  of  her  past  nor  any  predictions  for 
a  future.  She  ate  little  those  days,  subsisting  on  the 
light  she  had  seen  in  the  celebrity's  beautiful  dark 
eyes,  on  that  strange  touch  of  his  strong  hand  over 
hers.  And  Conningsby  ?  He  was  in  much  the  same 
mood.  His  sentiment  revelled  in  the  sweetness  of 
this  peculiar  situation,  revelled  in  the  unspoken  word, 
the  delicate,  delicious,  dangerous  flavor  of  the  thing, 
and  he  was  one  who  could  forbear  to  look  ahead  with 
ease.  He  tasted  of  his  new  fruit  with  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  its  forbidden  quality  and  an  equal  assurance 
that  he  need  not  peer  into  the  future  for  trouble. 
This  was  joy,  not  the  mad  intoxicant,  the  ineffable 
mystery  that  Judith  had  been  to  him.  She  had  been 
all  a  promise,  a  hope,  a  looking  forward  to.  This  was 

"3 


THE  UNDEFILED 

tangible,  existent,  sweet  with  the  luscious  sweetness 
of  the  ripe  grape  that  falls  into  the  open  mouth  and 
which  one  has  not  the  trouble  of  plucking. 

The  juice  and  richness  of  it  burned  in  his  veins,  in 
his  brain.  He  wrote  more  and  more  short-stories,  so 
that  the  prospect  of  having  to  leave  the  little  flat  for 
an  actual  tenement-house  was  abrogated  for  the  time 
being,  anyway.  Yet  there  was  back  rent  to  pay;  he 
must  be  clothed  in  an  approach  to  the  prevailing 
modes,  because,  as  his  publishers  and  the  editors  told 
him,  "a  man  whose  social  popularity  had  been  so 
great,  and  who  had  been  such  a  figure  in  society, 
could  not  afford  to  cut  it  now,  when  prosperity  had 
turned  a  bit  away  from  him."  Hence,  he  felt  that 
he  must  go  to  receptions,  teas,  dinners,  and  the  like. 
Judith's  health  and  the  baby  combined  were  sufficient 
excuses  for  her  not  being  seen  at  her  husband's  side. 
In  fact,  many  of  his  set  had  never  seen  her  but  once, 
on  her  wedding-day,  and  many  more  had  forgotten  her 
existence  altogether.  The  wife  of  a  celebrity  does  not 
often  count  for  much  among  the  celebrity's  admirers. 
The  women  who  had  worshipped  Conningsby  before 
his  marriage  loomed  up  again,  were  glad  the  wife  was 
in  ambush,  and  congratulated  themselves  with  the 
supposition  that  probably  he  was  worn  out  by  her 
long  ago,  and  promptly  put  on  their  most  fetching 
gowns  and  smiles  in  order  to  give  him  consolation 
for  his  mistake. 

Conningsby,  meantime,  was  not  ignoring  one  of 
them;  each  fed  his  inordinate  craving  for  sympa- 
thetic adulation.  He  wanted  nothing  more  than 
that  of  any  of  them,  but  he  did  want  that;  and  now 
since  he  and  Beatrice  Bond  had  looked  at  each  other, 

114 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

far  from  eschewing  these  others,  the  fact  of  her  gave 
them  an  added  charm.  His  was  a  peculiar  nature,  not 
vicious,  but  a  bit  inscrutable,  perhaps.  Beatrice  and 
he  met  daily  as  before,  in  the  halls,  at  the  doors; 
neither  of  them  spoke  for  days,  only  their  hands 
encountered,  until  one  night  Conningsby  gave  her 
a  flower  from  his  button  -  hole.  It  happened  this 
way: 

He  was  dressing  for  a  big  function  at  the  Faxon's ; 
celebrities,  for  which  commodity  the  Faxons  were 
famous,  were  to  be  there  galore;  he  had  promised  not 
to  fail  them.  They  had,  of  course,  wanted  Judith, 
but  the  baby  was  unusually  fractious,  and  the  latest 
thing  in  Bridgets  had  just  left  without  any  prelimi- 
naries at  all.  He  had  brought  home  two  gardenias, 
one  for  his  button-hole,  one  for  Judith.  She  fastened 
one  flower  in  his  coat  for  him,  and  put  the  other  in 
a  glass  of  water  where  the  baby  could  see  it. 

"Too  bad  you  never  can  go  anywhere,  Judy,"  he 
said,  catching  a  wilful  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  look- 
ing-glass over  the  bureau,  and  dreamily  wishing  that 
Beatrice  could  see  him  in  evening  dress. 

Judith  smiled.  There  was  nothing  else  for  her  to 
do ;  her  husband's  tone  was  so  very  clever  and  so  very 
perfunctory,  and  she  was  so  very  clever  as  to  be  able 
to  contrast  it,  without  much  effort,  with  the  tones  he 
used  to  employ  at  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  when  they  first 
met,  that  she  might  have  laughed  if  it  would  not  have 
entailed  a  possible  inquiry  into  the  cause  of  her  hilarity. 
She  could  laugh,  because  nothing  on  earth  counted  with 
her  at  that  time  in  her  life  except  the  tiny,  sickly,  fret- 
ting baby  in  the  adjoining  room.  She  realized  Connings- 
by's  change,  even  his  latest  buoyant  change,  although 


THE  UNDEFILED 

she  did  not  even  mistrust  its  cause ;  but  it  all  went  for 
nothing. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  him,  "I  suppose  it  is  rather 
a  pity.  But  what's  the  use?  I  would  not  go  and 
leave  the  baby,  even  if  I  had  the  gowns  to  wear." 

"By -and -by,"  he  said,  bending  to  put  a  kiss  on 
the  infant's  arm,  "things  will  be  better,  and  you  shall 
have  gowns.  Good-bye,  dear." 

He  turned  to  kiss  her,  too,  but  something  had 
forced  her  out  of  his  reach ;  an  impetuous,  unconscious 
impulse.  She  answered  him  from  the  recesses  of  the 
kitchen.  "Good-bye.  Enjoy  yourself.  Give  my  love 
to  Mrs.  Faxon  and  the  girls." 

He  was  off.  She  came  back  to  the  inner  room  and 
knelt  down  beside  the  bed  where  the  baby  lay,  very 
still  now,  its  long  black  lashes,  so  like  its  handsome 
father's,  lying  peacefully  and  unquivering  on  its 
pearly  cheeks.  She  prayed  to  God  that  He  would 
take  the  baby  away  to  heaven;  she  felt  the  little 
strength  she  had  ebbing  away  from  her;  she  felt  her 
impotence  to  care  for  it,  rear  it,  comfort  and  bring  it 
up.  She  felt,  also,  for  the  first  time,  that  evening,  a 
new  and  stinging  inadequacy,  smallness,  inefficiency, 
unfatherliness  in  Conningsby.  Her  soul  foretold  to 
her  the  sad  future  of  a  child  circumstanced  as  hers 
was;  she  saw  no  hope,  no  relief,  no  prospect  of  doing 
for  it  what'  should  be  done,  ever.  If  she  could  but 
go  out  into  the  world  somewhere  and  earn  money  for 
the  baby.  But  if  she  could,  while  she  was  going 
about  planning  and  getting  herself  started,  who  could 
take  care  of  it  ?  She  did,  for  a  second,  think  of  Bea- 
trice— Beatrice,  who  had  helped  her  twice  with  the 
baby  at  the  Park.  But  she  was  obliged  to  put  away 

116 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

this  idea,  because  Beatrice  had  her  own  work  to  do, 
her  own  way  to  go.  Besides,  how  could  she  trust 
any  one  with  the  baby  ?  Then  at  this  point,  while  she 
knelt  there,  the  remembrance  came  to  her  of  the 
Duke  de  Montresor,  and  for  an  instant  Judith  wavered 
in  a  resolve  of  hers,  and  almost  rose  to  go  and  write 
to  her  mother  and  to  his  Grace.  But  she  did  not  do 
it.  She  undressed,  lay  down,  and,  taking  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  went  to  sleep. 

When  she  awakened  it  was  with  a  strange,  terrified 
start;  something  cold  lay  between  her  arms.  Was 
she  dreaming?  No,  the  clock  on  the  parlor  mantel 
struck  two.  She  clasped  the  baby  closer,  one  hand 
on  its  face.  The  baby  was  cold,  very  cold — with  the 
coldness  that  comes  to  us  all  one  day.  She  uttered 
a  low  shriek,  and,  still  holding  it  in  her  arms,  made  a 
light.  Then  she  laid  it  down  and  looked  at  it.  Its 
tiny,  beautiful  face  was  emaciated  with  suffering;  the 
awful  Colon  climate  had  laid  hold  of  its  life  as  soon 
as  it  was  born.  The  mother  rubbed  it,  chafed  it, 
kissed  it,  called  it,  but  no  answering  wail  came  to  her 
strained  ears.  Then  she  knelt  down,  and  recollected 
her  prayer;  here  was  the  answer  to  it;  it  was  well. 
She  said  nothing  more;  her  baby  was  safe  back  again 
in  the  arms  of  God.  While  she  knelt  there  a  hundred 
things  rushed  and  rioted  through  her  mind;  she 
would  try  to  be  better,  to  be  stronger,  to  be  a  more 
helpful  wife  to  Conningsby,  all  for  the  sake  of  the 
morsel  of  a  dead  baby  that  lay  there  before  her  eyes. 
Conningsby?  Yes.  Conningsby's  wife  sprang  up,  she 
glanced  into  his  room,  feeling  almost  sure  that  he 
would  not  be  there,  that  he  was  sleeping  in  the  studio 
up  above.  She  must  go  for  him;  the  silence  and  the 

117 


THE  UNDEFILED 

loneliness  were  intolerable.  Perhaps,  if  he  fetched  a 
doctor,  the  baby —  But  no,  she  laid  her  head  down  on 
its  breast;  that  pulse  had  stopped  forever.  One  does 
not  mistake  the  finger  of  death.  She  slipped  a  wrap- 
per on  over  her  night-dress,  took  the  Yale -lock  key 
from  the  bureau,  and  ran  out  and  up  the  four  flights 
of  dimly  lighted  stairs. 

Conningsby  had  had  a  delightful  time  at  the  Fax- 
on's. Any  number  of  pretty  women,  women  whom  he 
used  to  know,  and  had  not  seen  since  before  his  mar- 
riage, were  there  and  made  things  pleasant  for  him. 
Some  of  them  asked  for  his  wife ;  most  of  them  didn't ; 
the  majority  preferred  to  forget,  since  he  seemed  to, 
that  the  celebrity  had  a  wife  at  all.  Dorothy,  who  was 
something  of  a  minx,  twice  reminded  him  of  Judith's 
existence  most  inopportunely;  but  this  did  not  spoil 
his  enjoyment.  He  met  several  new  publishers,  too, 
men  who  seemed  interested  in  him  and  his  work.  He 
left  among  the  last,  and  had  reached  home  at  a  quarter 
before  two.  He  did  not  wish  to  disturb  Judith  and 
the  baby,  so,  as  was  his  very  frequent  custom,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  up  to  the  studio.  Besides,  he 
recalled  that  he  had  left  the  window  wide  open  up 
there.  It  now  rained  a  downpour;  his  manuscripts 
might  get  wet ;  he  must  go  up  and  see  about  them. 

Beatrice,  sitting  up  in  her  work-room  in  her  wrapper, 
her  golden  hair  half  braided  and  hanging,  had  been 
reading  when  the  rain  began.  She  often  sat  up  this 
way  now  at  night,  just  for  the  meagre,  sentimental  joy 
of  hearing  her  neighbor's  footstep  when  he  should  come 
home  late  from  his  social  gayeties.  As  she  listened  to 
the  beat  of  the  rain  on  her  own  window,  she  thought 
of  his,  of  his  precious  manuscripts,  perhaps  carelessly 

118 


TWO  GARDENIA  BLOSSOMS 

left  near  the  open  window  as  was  his  habit.  She  un- 
locked and  opened  her  own  door;  his  was  ajar,  and 
the  gas  just  a  gleam  above  his  desk.  The  window-sill 
was  piled  with  his  papers.  She  went  in  and  removed 
them  to  the  table,  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  the 
cushion  of  his  big  chair — the  cushion  where  the  hand- 
some head  rested  every  day — looked  up,  and  there  stood 
the  celebrity  near  her. 

"The  rain — your  manuscripts!"  she  faltered,  a  tide 
of  color  rushing  over  her  face,  then  leaving  it  paler 
than  ever.  "I  came  in  to  save  them  from  getting 
spoiled." 

Conningsby  turned  up  the  gas  all  the  way,  smiled  a 
little,  and,  looking  at  her,  he  put  one  arm  around  her, 
while  with  the  other  hand  he  played  with  her  long, 
half  unbraided,  golden  hair. 

"  How  pretty  you  are!"  he  whispered. 

"But  the  papers."     She  shivered,  half  afraid. 

"No  matter  about  them.  I  never  knew  you  had 
such  lovely  hair.  It's  warm  and  soft  and  smooth." 

"Is  it?"  the  girl  said,  not  moving. 

"Yes,  of  course,  it  is,  and  your  throat  and  arms  are 
lovely,  too.  Here,  let  me  fasten  this  gardenia  in  your 
gown."  He  took  the  flower  Judith  had  pinned  in  his 
coat  and  stuck  it  through  one  of  the  button-holes  of 
Beatrice  Bond's  wrapper. 

Beatrice,  trembling,  quivering  in  his  arm's  -  fold, 
bent  her  head  and  kissed  Conningsby 's  hand  with 
soft,  quick  lips. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  the  man  asked,  with  a  tri- 
umphant smile  on  his  mouth,  as  he  turned  her  face  up 
to  the  ample  light. 

There  shone  on  it  the  love  that  Conningsby  had 
119 


THE  UNDEFILED 

wanted,  that  this  girl  had  always  known  he  wanted. 
She  said,  "Yes,"  under  her  breath. 

While  she  was  saying  it,  Judith,  finding  the  flat 
door  open,  had  entered.  She  stood  for  a  second 
dazzled  by  the  full  flare  of  the  studio  gas-jet,  then  the 
picture  of  the  man  and  the  woman  and  the  gardenia 
blossom  all  stamped  themselves  indelibly  on  her 
brain.  She  noiselessly  turned  away,  and  went  back 
to  the  little  dead  baby,  and  sat  beside  it  until  morn- 
ing dawned,  until  much  later,  when  its  father  came 
into  the  flat  for  his  breakfast.  She  rose  up  then, 
threw  his  gardenia  out  of  the  window,  and  told  him 
the  baby  was  dead. 

They  had  not  even  heard  nor  felt  her  nearness ;  they 
were  too  near  to  each  other  for  that  instinct  to  play. 
Conningsby  had  kissed  Beatrice,  but  not  as  he  had 
the  first  time,  and  then,  without  another  word,  he  had 
gently  pushed  her  out  of  his  studio  back  into  her  own 
place. 


X 

CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

THE  baby  had  been  dead  for  some  time.  Its 
father,  after  a  brief  abstention  from  society  and 
his  usual  haunts,  had  resumed  his  place  in  the  world. 
Its  mother,  with  a  singular  and  almost  ferocious  perti- 
nacity, had  taken  up  her  pen  a  week  after  the  burial, 
and  forced  herself  to  write  a  story,  which,  although 
none  of  the  best,  found  a  ready  sale  at  one  of  the 
second-class  magazines.  They  sent  her  forty  dollars 
for  it.  She  got  the  check  cashed,  and  with  part  of 
it  bought  herself  some  necessary  clothes;  the  rest  she 
put  away,  except  eight  dollars.  This  amount  she  laid 
upon  Conningsby's  chiffonier  in  his  room.  She  was 
looking  over  the  newspaper  when  he  came  in  that  even- 
ing about  six  o'clock  from  a  tea  he  had  been  attending, 
given  by  some  literary  club  or  other. 

He  espied  the  money  as  soon  almost  as  he  entered 
the  room.  He  picked  it  up,  and  returned  smilingly  to 
the  parlor  where  his  wife  sat  at  her  desk. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked,  holding  it  up  before  her 
eyes. 

"Eight  dollars,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

"I  know,  but — " 

"How  did  I  get  it,  you  mean?" 

He  nodded. 

121 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"A  story  at  the  Metropolis;  they  gave  me  forty  dol- 
lars for  it." 

"Good!"  He  looked  genuinely  pleased,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  he  added,  glancing  at  the 
bills  between  his  fingers:  "A  present  for  me?  Lovely 
of  you,  dear,  very  lovely." 

"Not  a  present,"  she  said,  rising  and  so  ridding  her- 
self of  the  touch  of  his  hand,  and  reseating  herself 
negligently  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her  pretty  feet 
very  much  in  evidence  in  their  half-shabby  shoes. 

Conningsby  laughed.     "What  then?" 

"A  week's  board,"  she  replied,  in  a  strained  voice, 
but  very  gently. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  the  husband  ex- 
claimed, in  astonishment. 

"Just  that,  a  week's  board,"  she  repeated,  suc- 
cinctly. "As  long  as  I  stop  here — it  will  be  only  a 
week  more  at  the  longest,  I  think — I  shall  pay  you 
for  it,  that  much  each  week."  She  smiled  now,  too. 

"Are  you  gone  mad?"  he  cried,  laying  the  money 
down  before  her. 

"No,  I'm  entirely  sane.  I  mean  just  what  I  say. 
We  have  come  to  the  point  where  our  paths  diverge; 
we  must  part."  She  now  sprang  up  and  crossed  the 
room,  with  her  face  turned  from  him.  "You  surely 
understand.  Words  are  not  necessary.  I  shall  go 
away  as  soon  as  I  can  arrange  things." 

"  But  words  are  necessary,"  Conningsby  asserted,  fol- 
lowing her.  "I  want  you  to  explain  to  me  what  you 
mean,  what  you  are  aiming  at." 

"I  am  going  away,"  she  reiterated,  standing  still 
and  looking  out  at  the  swarms  of  children  playing  and 
screaming  up  and  down  the  flat-ridden  block. 

122 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

"Judith!"  Her  husband  came  up  to  her.  "Do 
you  mean  that  you  want  to  leave  me?" 

She  inclined  her  head. 

"That  you  care  nothing  more  for  me?" 

The  truth  did  not  dawn  upon  him.  Like  many 
men,  he  had  the  instincts  of  the  bird  named  the  ostrich, 
and  his  main  care  at  the  moment  was  the  discovery 
that  his  wife  no  longer  loved  him. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever 
cared  a  great  deal  about  you.  It's  only  fair  to  say 
that  your  love  for  me  was  your  principal  passport. 
You  knew  it.  I  never  concealed  it  from  you.  I  made 
no  pretences.  I  could  not.  I  see  now  that  I  was 
wrong  to  marry  you.  It  was  a  bitter,  sinful  thing 
for  me  to  do;  a  weak,  stupid  thing." 

"Oh!" 

"As  things  are  I  cannot  do  less  by  you  than  to  go 
away  from  you." 

"Things — what  things?"  he  said,  beginning  to  see 
a  new  light. 

She  looked  up  at  him  now.     "You  know,"  she  said. 

Then  he  turned  away  from  her  back  to  the  fire. 
"You  mean — Beatrice?"  He  spoke  very  low. 

"Yes,  Beatrice."     Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"Well,"  Conningsby  broke  it,  "since  you  admit 
that  you  do  not  care  for  me,  what  of  it?" 

"Nothing,"  she  replied,  in  a  dull  way,  "except 
that — '  She  stopped  short  and  her  breath  came 
quickly,  and  there  was  a  fine  curl  to  her  beautiful  lips. 

"Well,  except  that — ?"  His  tone  was  a  little  im- 
patient. 

"You  don't  suppose,  do  you," — she  spoke  now  in  a 
clear,  low  voice,  full  of  resolve,  of  womanliness,  of 

9  123 


THE  UNDEFILED 

power — "that  I  am  going  to  live  under  the  roof  of  a 
man  who  does  not  love  me,  be  supported  by  him,  be  a 
lie,  live  a  lie,  act  a  lie  before  the  world  and  to  him  and 
to  myself?  No." 

"Nonsense!"  Conningsby  laughed.  "You  are  a 
bit  melodramatic."  Judith's  eyes  flashed.  "We  can 
live  here  harmoniously  enough." 

"Can  we?"  she  remarked. 

"To  be  sure.     May  I  speak  plainly  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"We  are  married,  you  know.  That  is  a  fact  which 
neither  of  us  is  in  a  position  to  overcome.  I  have 
made  certain  vows,  entered  into  a  certain  compact, 
so  have  you.  We  are  bound  together,  so  far  as  the 
law,  social  ethics,  expediency,  and  propriety  are  con- 
cerned. We  must  remain  so." 

"Must  we?"  she  said,  with  a  superficial  passivity. 

"  I  think  so."  He  regarded  her  carefully.  "  Do  you 
love  some  one  else  ?"  he  finally  asked,  in  a  startled  way 

"No." 

Conningsby  sighed  with  apparent  relief.  "  But  you 
don't  love  me?"  He  caught  his  own  reflection  in  the 
narrow  mirror  over  the  mantel,  and  really,  intuitively, 
wondered  for  a  second  how  she  could  help  it. 

"No." 

"You  have  discovered,"  he  was  about  to  say, 
"that  I  love  some  one  else,"  but  could  not.  Such  a 
statement  would  have  been  afield  as  yet,  and  even 
he  recognized  it  would  not  have  been  quite  just  to  have 
said  "that  I  am  loved."  He  compromised  it  by  the 
mere  utterance  of  .the  name,  "Beatrice?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  well,  what  of  it?  Life  is  full  of  such  things. 
124 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

Husbands  and  wives  are  daily  finding  out  similar  con- 
ditions. Let  us  be  philosophical  and  make  the  best 
of  it." 

It  pleased  him  to  have  a  beautiful  wife  on  the 
ground  floor,  even  if  she  didn't  love  him,  or  he  her,  and 
a  beautiful  woman  of  another  type  who  did  love  him 
on  the  top  floor.  The  romantic  in  the  situation  at- 
tracted and  held  him.  He  had  not  given  up  the  studio 
when  the  fretting  baby  was  laid  to  rest.  He  and  Bea- 
trice met  daily  just  for  a  word,  a  touch,  a  glance. 
Conningsby  liked  all  this;  he  asked  for  nothing  more 
at  present. 

"I  intend  to  make  the  best  of  it,"  Judith  answered. 
"  I  intend  to  pay  you  as  I  would  any  one  with  whom  I 
boarded." 

"Bah!"  he  spoke  at  the  same  instant. 

"And  I  intend  to  live  in  another  house  just  as  soon 
as  I  can  do  it." 

"Impossible!" 

Judith  laughed  a  little.  "Oh  no,  quite  entirely 
possible.  If  I  can't  take  care  of  myself  with  my  pen, 
story-writing,  I'll  find  a  way." 

"You  may  write  all  the  stories 'you  please,"  he  re- 
plied, "but  you  must  not  leave  this  house." 

"Why  not?"  she  inquired,  defiantly. 

"See  here,"  he  said.     "Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"I'll  stand.     I'd  rather.     You  sit  if  you  wish  to." 

He  remained  standing.     "Listen  to  reason." 

"I'll  listen  to  you,"  she  responded,  with  the  shadow 
of  one  of  her  old  brilliant  smiles. 

He  went  on  rapidly,  striding  up  and  down  the  little 
room  as  he  spoke,  his  hands  thrust  in  his  trousers 
pockets. 

125 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"  If  you  leave  me  it  will  spoil  my  career.  I  am  just 
beginning  to  pull  myself  up  once  more.  This  Colon 
book's  going  to  put  me  on  top  again;  that  and  my 
new  lectures.  By -the -way,  I've  signed  to  give  the 
course  of  five  at  the  Waldorf.  A  scandal  just  at  this 
crisis  would  mean,  perhaps,  the  loss  of  everything  to 
me." 

"Scandal!"  Judith  repeated,  in  quick,  indignant 
scorn. 

"  Yes " — he  hesitated — "scandal.'' 

"Granted,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
thought  that  now  such  things  —  scandals,  as  you  call 
them  —  only  added  to  the  public  interest  felt  in  an 
author  or  any  person  much  in  evidence." 

"Absurd!  That  sort  of  thing  may  do  as  a  boom 
for  actors  and  such  people,  but  for  a  man  of  letters, 
it's  'a  handicap  of  the  worst  kind."  He  instanced  a 
recent  and  flagrant  case. 

"How  about  the  woman?"  she  queried,  with  a 
sense  of  humor,  as  she  smiled  in  perfect  realization  of 
his  utter  selfishness. 

"Oh  yes,  bad  for  you,  too,  don't  you  see?  —  don't 
you  see  ?  But  worse  for  me,  because  I  have  had  such 
a  success,  such  a  name,  such  a  following." 

"I  see."  She  could  not  really  help  the  slight 
mockery  of  her  inflection. 

"You  cannot  leave  this  house.  You  cannot  live 
away  by  yourself.  No,  no." 

"Who  would  know  it?"  she  asked.  "I  go  almost 
nowhere.  I  have  not  been  out  with  you  in  months; 
in  fact,  not  much  since  we  came  back  to  New  York." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  but  it  would  get  out.  It  cannot 
be."  His  tone  was  harsh. 

126 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

It  aroused  rebellion.  "You  can't  force  me  to  stop 
with  you.  No  power  can  make  me  stop.  There  is, 
happily,  no  law  to  compel  a  man  or  a  woman  to  live 
in  the  house  even  with  any  one — husband  or  wife;  at 
least,  the  law  stopped  short  there.  Listen.  You  talk 
of  your  honor,  your  good  repute,  your  sense  of  right; 
now  I  will  speak  of  mine.  I  should  despise  myself 
just  as  I  would  despise  any  other  woman  who  lives  a 
lie,  who  stays  on  and  is  supported  by  a  husband  who 
does  not  love  her,  but  who  does  love  some  one  else,  if 
she  is  able  to  support  herself  or  has  an  income.  I  am 
able.  What!  Eat  your  bread,  wear  the  clothes  you 
might  buy  for  me,  when  I  know  that  bread  and  those 
clothes  are  what  your  heart  longs  to  bestow  on  some 
one  else!  I  do  that?  No." 

"Hush!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  went  on  in  her  low,  exquisite  voice, 
"that  I  have  not  loved  you,  that  I  don't  know — yet — 
what  to  love  is,  but  I  have  an  imagination;  I  can 
figure  it  out;  I  can  picture  it.  I  know  how  you  must 
feel  towards  Beatrice.  I  had  for  you  a  great  infatua- 
tion, a  fascination.  I  was,  I  am,  a  mystery  that  you 
can  never  solve;  but  Beatrice,  she  is  the  woman  who 
loves  you,  whom  you  love,  whom  you  understand  and 
want." 

"Good  God,  stop!"  the  man  said. 

"No,  it  has  to  be  said,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  not 
quivering,  but  more  like  that  of  some  young  prophetess 
than  of  a  wife  informing  a  husband  of  his  infidelities. 
"You  cannot  help  it." 

"But  you  wish  it  were  not  so?"  He  spoke  eagerly, 
cravingly,  curiously. 

"No!  no!  a  thousand  times  no!"  she  answered.  His 
127 


THE  UNDEFILED 

head  sank  between  his  hands.  "  I  would  not  have  any- 
thing any  different  than  it  is,  only  I  wish  that  you  were 
quite  free." 

"You  mean" — he  now  started  up — "you  wish  you 
were  free  yourself!" 

She  looked  at  him.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not.  I 
don't  care  about  myself  that  way  now.  It  might 
come.  I  don't  know." 

"  Of  course,  it  must  come.  A  woman  like  you  must 
care  some  day."  He  appreciated  her  extravagant  and 
strange  beauty  and  her  possibilities  even  at  this  remark- 
able juncture  in  their  relations. 

She  said:  "Now  we  understand  each  other  per- 
fectly. By-and-by,  I  presume,  you  can  get  a  divorce 
in  some  other  State,  and  marry  Beatrice.  It  will  take 
a  year  or  two,  perhaps.  I  don't  know.  But  I  shall 
leave  here  probably  in  a  week." 

"  No."  He  spoke  emphatically,  with  the  force  of  an 
inherent  right  to  command  her. 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  and  put  the  bills  once  more  into 
his  hand. 

"No.    Be  just  to  me. ' '    His  tone  was  almost  pedagogic. 

"I  think,"  Judith  laughed — "I  think  I've  been  gen- 
erous." 

"Maybe,  but  I  want  to  see  you  acting  justly." 

"It's  not  acting,"  she  laughed  again,  in  her  old, 
buoyant,  brilliant  fashion.  "You  mean  behave,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes.  Well,  then,  behave  justly.  Don't  ruin  me 
now  when  I  am  starting  up  again." 

"I  think  you  are  wrong  about  that.  In  the  first 
place,  the  public,  the  world  at  large,  will  not  and  need 
not  know." 

128 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

"Those  things  creep  out  when  they  concern  people 
like  me — like  us,"  he  hastily  corrected,  while  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth  twitched. 

"You  are  clever  enough  to  keep  them  in,  and  I 
shall  be  entirely  lost  to  all  view.  I  might  go  abroad." 

"Not  really?" 

"No,  not  really,  but  ostensibly.  I  could  not  earn 
money  there.  I  can  here.  I  must  stay  in  New 
York." 

"You  must,  you  will,  stop  on  with  me  here."  His 
tone  was  final. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  must  not  go.  Not  yet,  not  yet.  Wait  until 
I  am  on  my  feet  again,  won't  you?"  He  employed 
the  old  pleading,  sweet  voice  that  had  been  so  per- 
suasive in  his  wooing  of  her. 

"How  long?"  she  asked,  fully  realizing  the  strange, 
absurd  pathos  of  the  crisis. 

"Six  months,  say.  I  believe  in  six  months  I  shall 
have  recouped  entirely,  and  then — " 

"Then  scandal  would  be  powerless  to  spoil  your 
career?"  She  veiled  whatever  her  thoughts  were 
under  an  emphasis  of  resolute  kindliness. 

"I  think  so,"  he  answered,  seriously. 

"  I  am  to  pay  my  way  if  I  stop  ?" 

"Don't!"  he  cried,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  his 
face. 

"It  must  be  that  way,  or  I  could  not  stop." 

"Very  well,"  he  replied;  then  he  thrust  her  money 
in  his  pocket,  and  stood  and  looked  at  her.  The 
aesthete,  the  artist,  the  writer,  got  the  better  of  him  as 
he  gazed.  At  last  he  said:  "How  did  you  know?" 

"What?"  she  inquired. 

129 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"About  Beatrice?" 

Judith  did  not  answer  her  husband,  although  he 
kept  on  looking  at  her.  Suddenly,  like  a  flood  of  fire, 
the  old,  mad,  passionate,  ecstasy  of  brain  and  heart 
swept  over  him,  and  he  went  close  to  her  and  opened 
his  arms,  and  said,  recklessly:  "Let  me  kiss  you!" 

She  sat  quite  still,  but  she  looked  fully  into  his 
handsome  black  eyes,  looked  steadily  and  for  quite  a 
half-minute,  and  all  about  her  there  seemed  to  fall  a 
mantle,  dark,  clinging,  protective,  enshrining,  so  that 
with  all  his  desire  and  all  his  right  he  still  was  power- 
less to  touch  her,  and  had  to  turn  away. 

Judith  wrote  more  stories,  but  most  of  these  found 
no  sale;  they  were  poor  stuff,  and  she  knew  it.  At 
last  she  was  at  the  end  of  her  money;  something  else 
must  be  done.  She  thought  of  teaching.  But  what  ? 
She  knew  no  one  thing  sufficiently  well  to  teach  it. 
There  was  always  the  stage.  She  shuddered,  and  said 
to  herself:  "Not  yet."  She  took  up  a  morning  news- 
paper, and  turned  to  the  columns  of  those  who  wanted 
"help."  No  one  wanted  a  private  secretary  unless 
they  were  also  equipped  as  stenographers  and  type- 
writers. She  was  accomplished  in  no  such  lines.  Yet, 
stop!  here  was  a  person  who  was  looking  for  a  secre- 
tary, a  "social  secretary,"  whatever  that  might  mean. 
The  address  given  was  in  Nassau  Street,  and  applicants 
were  requested  to  call  that  day  after  twelve  o'clock.  It 
was  now  one;  she  got  ready  at  once,  and  started  down- 
town. She  was  nervous,  apprehensive,  wondering,  piti- 
fully incompetent  to  the  loneliness  she  had  marked  out 
for  herself,  but  yet  happy  in  the  course  she  pursued, 
which  represented  to  her  the  only  honorable  line  pos- 
sible to  a  woman  placed  as  she  found  herself  to  be. 

130 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

She  speculated  as  to  what  this  building  would  be  like; 
what  kind  of  man  it  might  be  who  advertised  from 
this  office;  what  the  duties,  the  hours,  the  surround- 
ings, the  conditions,  the  touch,  would  prove  to  be;  and 
at  last  she  reached  and  was  taken  up  in  the  lift  to 
the  eleventh  floor,  and  Nos.  17,  19,  21,  were  indicated 
to  her.  She  found  the  entrance,  and  knocked.  Evi- 
dently no  sort  of  attention  was  paid  to  her  rap.  Three 
girls,  much  dressed  and  giggling,  then  opened  the  door 
and  came  out  into  the  hall.  They  left  the  door  open, 
so  she  walked  rather  timidly  in.  A  boy  met  her  with 
an  inquiring  look. 

"The  advertisement,"  she  said;  "  I  am  answering  it." 

"Oh!  Wait  a  minute;  there's  one  in  there  now. 
You  might  sit  down,"  he  added,  surveying  her,  and 
pointing  to  the  leather-covered  settee.  Judith  sat 
down.  She  was  tired,  perhaps  she  trembled  a  little, 
and  she  was  ready  to  cry,  which  was  an  unusual 
phase  for  her. 

An  inner  door  swung  open,  a  girl  even  more  flashy 
than  the  other  three  emerged,  whisking  a  strongly 
perfumed  handkerchief  and  clicking  a  pair  of  very 
high  heels.  Then  the  boy  said  to  Judith:  "You  can 
go  in  now."  He  obligingly  held  open  the  door,  closed 
it  after  her,  and  she  and  the  man  in  Languedoc  were 
face  to  face.  He  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  threw 
away  his  cigar.  She  saw  her  turquoise  ring  dangling 
at  his  fob;  he  saw  the  girl  in  Languedoc.  For  a  mo- 
ment there  was  a  silence  between  them.  Then  she 
spoke,  and  said: 

"I  am  answering  the  advertisement  for  a  social 
secretary.  I  don't  quite  understand  the  needs  and 
duties,  but  I  think  I  can  fill  them." 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Then  he  was  sure  that  this  was  the  voice  of  the  girl 
with  the  turquoise  ring,  and  he  looked  at  her — a  long, 
full  look — absorbing  the  beauty,  the  graciousness,  the 
vibrant  quality  of  her  personality.  He  answered  : 

"Yes,  pray  sit  down.  The  duties  and  needs  are 
very  simple.  I  am  a  Western  man,  self-made."  He 
smiled  as  if  the  information  were  self-evident  in  his 
appearance  in  some  way.  It  was  not.  Nothing  was 
farther  from  his  aspect  than  this.  He  had  the  air  of 
a  man  of  the  world,  even  if  there  were  a  certain  flavor 
of  the  wild  about  him,  a  certain  ruddy  healthfulness, 
a  certain  frankness  in  his  eyes,  a  certain  cleanness  in 
his  atmosphere.  "I  merely  want  a — "  he  hesitated — 
"a  person  who  could  spare,  say,  four  or  five  hours  a 
day — less,  even — to  do  up  my  correspondence  among 
friends,  acquaintances.  I  have  no  time  for  this.  All 
the  time  I  can  spare  from  my  affairs  I  like  to  give  to 
the  friends  themselves,  and  not  to  waste  any  of  it 
in  acknowledging  their  courtesies.  You  see?" 

"I  see." 

"  I  want  some  one  who  will  not  require  to  be  dic- 
tated to,  but  who  can  use  her  own  discretion  once  she 
is  a  bit  posted." 

"Yes.     I  cannot  write  shorthand." 

"There  is  no  use  for  shorthand  in  this." 

"I  cannot  use  a  type- writer." 

"  It  would  not  come  into  the — into  what  you  would 
have  to  do."  At  this  point  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
must  speak  of  that  long-gone  day  in  Languedoc;  must 
ask,  must  know,  what  fortune  had  fetched  her  here  to 
him  in  her  half-worn  gown,  neat  as  wax,  beautiful  as 
if  in  a  Worth  toilette;  must  find  out  why  this  girl, 
who,  it  seemed  to  him,  had  worn  point-lace  for  cen- 

132 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

turies,  should  be  seeking  a  paltry  situation  like  this. 
But  there  was  something  in  her  attitude  which  fore- 
bade  the  reminiscence.  His  eagerness,  however,  could 
not  all  be  restrained.  He  felt  a  crisis  in  his  life,  he 
felt  every  pulse  in  him  tingling  with  suppressed  but 
splendid  joy,  the  joy  of  a  conquering  discoverer,  of 
one  sure  that  at  last  the  goal  had  been  sighted.  He 
went  on,  hurriedly:  "I  am  sure  the  duties  would  not 
prove  too  hard;  the  hours  can  be  made  to  suit  you." 

"The  salary?"  Judith  said  it  with  a  courage  that 
cost  her  more  than  had  all  her  talk  with  Conningsby 
about  Beatrice  Bond.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 
It  rose  darkly  in  his. 

"Just  name  it,"  he  said,  quickly.  "It  will  be  all 
right.  I  mean  " —  He  rose,  feeling  his  mistake,  and 
then  reseated  himself  and  resumed,  with  a  visible  ef- 
fort: "  What  salary  did  you  expect  ?  Won't  you  please 
tell  me?  I  am  rather  at  sea  about  this  thing  my- 
self, and  you  probably  know  the  customs  far  better 
than  I." 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  said,  gently.  "I  know  that  my 
services  are  not  worth  much." 

"  Please  let  me  be  the  judge.  Will  twenty  dollars  a 
week  be  right  to  start  with  ?"  There  was  that  chivalry, 
that  deference,  that  mystical  something  in  his  manner 
which  forbade  misinterpretation.  There  was  a  sim- 
plicity, directness,  probity,  about  him  which  com- 
pelled her  toleration. 

"That  is  too  much,"  she  replied,  simply;  "twelve 
would  be  enough  for  the  time  and  work  you  desire." 

"Permit  me,  then,  to  meet  your  say-so  half-way, 
and  call  it  sixteen." 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  she  said.  "You  may  think 
133 


THE  UNDEFILED 

I  have  some  one  dependent  on  me.  I  have  not.  I 
am  alone." 

How  his  heart  throbbed  to  hear  her  utterance  of 
that  word,  to  hear  that  she  was  "alone";  that  it  had 
become,  within  these  last  few  minutes  of  this  day, 
possible  that  he  might  take  all  loneliness,  care,  hard- 
ship, pain,  and  trouble  away  from  this  woman. 

"I  am  alone."  The  words  fairly  danced  through 
his  brain.  Not  any  other  man's  wife  or  sweetheart. 
She  was  "alone." 

"So  much  the  more,  then,  do  you  require  a  fair — 
it's  only  fair,  believe  me — salary,  since  you  have  no 
one  to  look  to  but  yourself.  Let  it  be  so,  please. 
And  when  can  you  come  and  begin?" 

"Whenever  you  say." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes.     At  what  hour?" 

"Ten  in  the  morning.     Is  that  too  early?" 

"  By  no  means.  That  is  late  for  a  working-woman's 
day  to  begin." 

He  bit  his  lip.  He  must  speak.  But  no,  he  dared 
not;  presumption  was  not  in  his  line.  She  seemed  to 
him  to  be  in  a  shrine,  the  door  of  which  he  dared  not 
force. 

"To-morrow,  then,  at  ten,"  she  said,  rising. 

"Yes.  This  desk  over  here  in  the  alcove,  will  it 
suit  you?" 

"Certainly." 

"The  light  is  best  from  the  left  side  always?" 

"Yes,  they  say  so." 

"And  the  draughts  from  those  windows  will  not 
annoy  you?" 

"Oh  no!" 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

What  else,  what  other  triviality,  could  he  think  of  to 
detain  her  for  one  more  little  minute  at  his  side  ?  Then 
she  said,  "Good-morning,"  and  left  him. 

After  she  had  gone,  he  realized  that  he  knew  neither 
her  name  nor  her  residence.  The  word  "references" 
smote  him  in  the  eyes,  too,  as  he  glanced  over  his  ad- 
vertisement in  the  paper  before  him.  He  laughed. 
He  got  up  and  went  into  his  outer  offices,  and,  being 
handicapped  with  a  Western  background,  he  pulled  out 
a  big  fistful  of  silver  and  gold,  and  made  every  one 
of  his  employe's  a  tolerable  present.  He  did  not  as- 
sign any  reason;  they  did  not  venture  to  suggest  one, 
but  when  he  had  gone  up-town  they  said: 

"  Mr.  Travers  must  have  made  a  pile  on  the  races ; 
some  of  his  horses  won  big  money.  Yes,  that's  it,  of 
course.  He  never  did  just  this  before,  but  he's  always 
queer  in  his  ways,  and  he  was  happy  to-day  and  no 
mistake." 

When  Conningsby  came  in  to  dinner  that  evening, 
Judith  said: 

"I'm  written  out.  The  Atlas  Magazine,  even,  re- 
turned my  last  as  altogether  impossible." 

The  husband  pulled  out  his  pocket-book.  She  ex- 
claimed: "Oh  no,  no;  not  that!  Never!" 

"Pshaw!"     He  tendered  her  some  money. 

"No,  not  if  there  were  need,  and  there  is  no  need. 
I  have  taken  a  position  as  private  secretary." 

"What!     Youl     My  wife!" 

His  wife  regarded  him  with  undisguised  curiosity. 

"I  am  your  wife  yet,  so  far  as  law  is  concerned," 
she  answered,  slowly.  "I  wish  I  were  not." 

"I  am  aware  of  it."  His  tone  was  an  embittered 
one. 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"I  am  glad  you  are  aware  of  it.  I  hold  in  con- 
tempt a  man  who,  like  you,  for  any  reasons  like  yours, 
desires  to  keep  up  an  appearance  to  the  world.  I  de- 
spise all  lies,  but  the  worst  lie  is  the  lie  of  living  as  we 
do,  unless  there  were" — she  hesitated — "a  little  child. 
Even  then,  it  is  a  question  whether  a  child  brought  up 
in  the  atmosphere  of  a  loveless  home,  by  two  people 
who  are  wholly  at  odds,  is  not  cruelly  handicapped 
from  start  to  finish." 

"So  you  hold  me  in  contempt?"  he  asked,  in  a  sar- 
donic way.  She  made  no  reply.  "And  yet,  once," — 
he  was  brutal — "once  you  were  glad  to  feel  my  arms 
about  you,  were  you  not?"  He  sat  down  beside  her 
on  the  couch. 

"It  is  not  well  to  resurrect  the  dead,"  she  finally 
said.  "Only  let  me  leave  here!"  She  rose  now,  and 
quickly  crossed  the  room  in  her  agitation.  "Be  some 
kind  of  a  man.  Don't  fear  what  people  will  say, 
what  the  public  will  think;  dare  to  do  what  is  best  and 
righteous  under  our  circumstances;  let  me  go.  If  it 
proves  to  be  a  barrier  to  your  success,  live  it  down, 
beat  it  down,  trample  upon  it,  overmaster  it.  Aren't 
you  strong  enough  for  that?" 

He  answered  in  a  low,  tense  voice:  "No." 

"Oh!"  Her  inflection  was  impatient,  disappointed, 
but  not  scornful. 

"You  still  insist  that,  in  order  not  to  have  your  re- 
newed career  spoiled,  I  must  live  on  here  in  the  house 
with  you?" 

He  inclined  his  head. 

"Suppose  I  won't  do  it?" 

"You!  Refuse  that  to  me!  No,  you  are  too  un- 
selfish, too  brave,  too  compassionate,  too  just." 

136 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

"  Am  I  ?  Suppose  I'm  tired  of  being  all  those  things  ? 
Suppose" — she  walked  back  and  forth  excitedly — "I 
want'  and  need  something  else  myself?  Suppose  I 
must  get  away,  must  breathe  another  atmosphere 
than  that  you  can  offer  me  here  with  your  heart  and 
hopes  up-stairs,  what  then?" 

He  sprang  up  and  came  over  close  to  her.  "  Do  you 
love  me?"  They  were  the  words  she  had  heard  him 
speak  to  Beatrice  Bond,  but  no  man  would  ever  say 
them  to  Beatrice  Bond  with  the  same  inflection  that 
he  would  have  to  put  into  them  for  Judith  Conningsby. 
She  knew  that  with  one  word  of  one  syllable  she 
could  have  had  him  again  at  her  feet — could  have  kept 
him  there  all  his  life — if  she  had  chosen  to  utter  the 
monosyllable  and  live  up  to  it.  He  waited  breath- 
lessly, his  face  drawn  into  tense  lines.  He  hoped, 
feared,  longed;  he  had  forgotten  Beatrice — Beatrice 
was  a  woman  who  could  be  forgotten  without  too 
much  exertion. 

Then  Judith  said  in  a  cool,  colorless  tone:  "No,  I  do 
not." 

"Some  one  else?"  he  gasped,  now  seizing  her  hands, 
and  shaking  with  anger  and  discouragement. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "no  one  else.  Oh," — she  broke 
from  him  in  undisguised  horror — "can't  you  be  true  to 
some  one?" 

He  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  softly  a  few 
moments.  It  had  always  been  one  of  his  tricks  for 
working  off  a  superabundance  of  emotion.  Without 
turning  his  head  he  presently  said:  "You  are  going  to 
be  a  private  secretary.  To  whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"A  business  firm  down-town." 

"You  have  engaged  the  place?" 
137 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Yes." 

"See  here!"  Conningsby  jumped  up.  "It's  im- 
possible! Mrs.  Sidney  Conningsby  can't  be  earning 
her  own  living  openly  like  that.  Writing  stories  is 
one  thing,  but  having  a  position  in  a  city  office  is  an- 
other. My  name  can't  be  alloyed  in  that  fashion.  It 
won't  do.  It  will  be  all  over  town,  my  part  of  town, 
in  no  time." 

Judith  then  remembered  that  her  employer  had  not 
asked  or  been  given  a  name. 

"Your  name  has  not  been  used." 

"Ah,  your  name,  eh?  Judith  Harriman?  Well, 
you  write  under  that,  too.  That  is  better." 

"Best,  I  should  say,"  she  remarked. 

"We  must  have  it  put  on  a  separate  card  at  the 
letter-box  outside  there,  too." 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "Or  suppose,  pro  tern.,  you 
put  your  name  in  the  box  for  the  fourth  flat." 

"Yes."  He  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  little 
room.  "And  if,  by  chance,  you  and  I  should  en- 
counter each  other  in  the  presence  of  these  employers 
of  yours,  we  will  not  recognize  each  other,  eh?" 

"Just  precisely  as  you  say."  Judith  was  conscious 
of  her  own  attitude  of  mind  that  night.  She  felt  it  to 
be  as  if  she  were  measuring  a  person  for  a  shroud,  and 
burying  one  whom  she  had  hitherto  regarded  as  a  man. 

"It  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  meet,  but  it  is  wiser 
to  be  prepared.  In  fact,  it  may  be  just  as  well  after 
this  if  we  cease  to  recognize  each  other  outside  the 
house." 

"Why?"  She  was  really  interested  to  hear  his 
course  explained. 

"Well,  I  observe  that  you  have  been  going  about  a 
138 


CONNINGSBY'S  CAREER 

bit  lately,  to  the  Faxons'  and  some  other  places.  Peo- 
ple who  know  me  don't  know  you;  I  mean  they  know 
a  Mrs.  Conningsby  exists,  but  they  haven't  seen  you; 
they  forget.  And  as  we  are  to  part  eventually,  it  will 
make  the  matter  simpler  for  me  if  we  just  ignore  each 
other,  when  possible,  in  social  affairs." 

She  regarded  him  carefully.  The  sublimated  self- 
ishness almost  amused  her.  To  be  just,  too,  all 
through  this  conversation  she  had  not  once  recalled, 
save  as  an  employer,  the  man  in  Languedoc. 

"I  agree  with  you."  She  spoke  with  animation. 
His  eyes  rested  upon  her.  She  was  most  dangerously, 
dazzlingly,  beautiful  that  night;  more  so  than  even  he 
had  ever  seen  her.  He  sighed  as  he  left  her,  and  went 
up-stairs  to  the  studio. 


M1 


THE    MAN    IN    LANGUEDOC 

[ISS  HARRIMAN,  as  Travers  soon  learned  to  call 
her,  was  punctually  at  her  desk  the  next  day, 
and  in  an  hour  was  mistress  of  the  very  simple  corre- 
spondence which  her  employer  wanted  her  to  deal 
with.  In  fact,  before  the  week  was  at  an  end  there 
were  other  matters  upon  which  he  consulted  her — 
things  in  his  wide  business  interests ;  interesting  letters 
which  came  to  him  from  Russian  grand-dukes  about 
railways  and  mines;  from  landholders,  bankers,  peers, 
and  overseers  in  that  far-off  country;  also,  from  Eng- 
land, from  China,  from  Japan.  All  this  opened  up  a 
new  world  to  the  secretary.  It  exhilarated,  charmed 
her;  and  the  keen  play  of  his  intellect,  his  knowledge, 
his  thoroughness,  all  pleased  her;  but  not  so  much  as 
her  brain,  her  wit,  her  infinite  variety;  fascinated  him. 
There  was  also  this  whet  to  the  intercourse,  had 
it  needed  one:  the  elusive,  escaping  quality  of  the 
woman  —  the  pursuing  eagerness  of  the  man;  his  de- 
termination, each  morning,  before  he  saw  her,  to 
speak  of  that  day  in  Languedoc,  to  venture  to  tell 
her  of  the  girl  with  the  turquoise  ring  —  her  equal 
fixedness  that  the  day  in  Languedoc  should  not  be 
reverted  to,  and  that  assuredly  she  would  never  speak 
of  her  ring  (she  did  not  count  at  all  on  his  memory  of 

140 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

her  voice).  Why  did  she,  then,  object  to  recalling 
that  sunny  afternoon  in  France,  when"  Ernest  Faxon 
had  been  an  unknown  witness  to  the  saving  of  her  life 
by  this  man?  Because  the  flavor  of  the  Unspoken 
held  her  in  its  quite  inexplicable  thrall.  The  days,  as 
they  went  along  with  their  four  or  five  hours  spent  at 
her  desk,  much  of  the  time  in  Travers's  presence,  were 
sufficient  unto  themselves.  There  was  in  him  the 
almighty  something  which  no  man  had  ever  before, 
or  ever  could  again,  possess  for  her.  She  reckoned 
not  with  anything,  with  any  one;  she  simply  drifted, 
and  by  sheer  force  of  her  unworded  will  kept  him  in 
the  same  sweet  uncertainty  as  herself.  She  hardly 
thought;  it  was  not  thinking,  it  was  sensation.  And 
Travers?  Something  of  Miss  Harriman's  mood  in- 
fected him,  although  his  more  robust,  more  direct  and 
emphatic  personality,  if^  lulled  for  a  time,  was  bound 
to  prevail  in  the  end — as  a  strong  man  is  sure  to  pre- 
vail over  the  woman  he  seeks  to  possess. 

Travers's  chance  came,  with  a  rain-storm  for  an  ally. 
It  was  four  o'clock.  Miss  Harriman  had  been  busy 
with  some  letters  to  a  Japanese  inventor  in  Tokio. 
Apparently  occupied  with  other  affairs,  he  sat  at  his 
desk,  furtively  watching  her,  and  betweenwhiles  smil- 
ing at  the  increasing  downpour  outside.  His  plan  was 
not  long  in  formulating.  He  'phoned  for  his  automo- 
bile, and  presently  went  into  the  outer  office.  When 
he  saw  the  covered  vehicle  spin  up  to  the  door  of 
the  big  building,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  down. 
He  knew  she  must  be  finished,  and  leave  very  soon. 
She  came  out  in  ten  minutes,  casting  a  rather  rueful 
glance  at  the  storm,  but  resolute,  too,  with  her  little 
umbrella  and  her  overshoes  on. 

141 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Travers  seemed  to  her  to  spring  out  of  nowhere. 
He  said,  taking  the  umbrella  very  gently  from  her: 

"You  will  not  make  me  see  you  walking  to  the  'L' 
in  this  sort  of  weather  while  I  have  a  car  here  at  the 
door?  Please." 

She  looked  up  in  a  startled  way.  ''Oh,  you  are 
very  kind,  but  really  it's  not  necessary.  I  shall  do 
very  well."  She  made  to  take  back  the  umbrella. 

"Won't  you  please  let  me  take  you  home?  It 
would  be  such  a  pleasure,"  he  pleaded.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  said  so  personal  a  thing  to  her.  The 
color  rushed  up  all  over  her  face.  She  had  never  been 
in  an  automobile  in  her  life.  The  big,  splendid  car 
seemed  to  yawn  an  invitation.  She  was  a  private 
secretary;  this  man  was  her  employer.  There  always 
remained  not  only  her  past,  but  the  present,  undeni- 
able fact  of  Conningsby.  Should  she,  could  she,  yield  ? 
Why  not?  There  also  remained  always,  always,  that 
day  in  Languedoc,  and  the  omnipotent  fact  that  this 
man  was  the  man. 

He  watched  her  anxiously.  "You  will  permit  me 
to  keep  you  from  taking  cold.  Certainly  you  would 
be  drenched  getting  over  to  the  'L.'" 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  "I  suppose  I  would." 

"Oh!"  He  urged  her  a  bit  out  of  the  vestibule, 
There  was  no  chauffeur  visible.  He  helped  her  in. 
got  in  himself,  and  they  started  up  Nassau  to  Broad- 
way, up  Broadway  to  Fifty-ninth,  into  the  Park. 
Not  many  minutes,  not  much  said  save  remarks  on 
the  rain,  the  crowds,  the  general  dripping  condition 
of  every  one  and  everything  on  the  route. 

"Is  it  better  here?"  he  inquired,  looking  down  at 
her. 

142 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

"Yes,"  she  sighed  in  relief. 

"You  like  the  country,  the  trees,  the  ground,  do 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  like  trees.     I  am  glad  you  do." 

She  laughed,  then  drew  herself  together,  as  they 
had  reached  within  a  few  blocks  of  her  street.  "I 
live  in  Ninety-sixth,"  she  said,  "the  fifth  from  the 
corner  of  Amsterdam,  but  you  can  put  me  down  here 
in  the  Park,  if  you  will  be  so  good." 

He  looked  at  her.  "Hardly."  They  whirled  past 
Ninety-sixth  Street  at  that  very  moment. 

"This  is  my  corner!" 

"Not  yet,"  he  begged,  putting  on  more  speed.  It 
was  a  species  of  relief  to  him  to  make  the  cylinders 
respond  and  fly,  even  if  he  could  not  speak  the  words 
he  wished  to. 

Did  he  wish  to  ?  Already  ?  Oh  yes.  But  he  was 
both  epicurean — this  self-made  man — and  a  coward. 
He  dared  not  put  things  to  the  test;  he  feared  the 
outcome.  This  way  he  could  retain  the  sight  and 
sound  of  her  each  day ;  if  he  spoke  she  might  quit  him 
forever,  or,  if  not  forever,  yet  put  herself  remote  and 
away  from  his  constant  sight. 

Travers  recalled  at  this  time,  as  he  guided  his 
auto  up  the  Park,  with  Judith  Harriman  beside  him, 
a  prayer  which  he  had  learned  somewhere  in  a  vague 
and  distant  past;  recalled  one  sentence  that  read, 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread."  Yes,  "daily 
bread,"  that  was  what  she  was  to  him.  One  did  not 
pray  for  a  storehouse  full  of  food,  but  for  "daily 
bread."  That  was  what  one  needed;  that  every  day 
the  eyes  should  rest  upon  and  satisfy  their  hunger  with 

U3 


THE  UNDEFILED 

the  sight  of  her,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  faint,  in- 
distinct aroma  of  her  garments  as  she  moved,  to  watch 
the  light  play  in  her  eyes,  on  her  dark  hair,  to  be  vis- 
ually assured  that  all  was  well  with  her. 

"The  last  time  I  remember  driving  this  way,"  he 
said,  "I  had  a  little  baby  in  my  arms." 

"Yes?"  she  replied,  and  she  wondered  in  a  startled 
way  if  he  were  going  to  tell  her  that  he  was  married. 

"Yes,"  slowly.  "I  was  out  trying  a  new  pair, 
blacks,  when  I  saw  an  old  pal  of  mine  from  the  Far 
West,  pushing  a  little  carriage.  I  pulled  up,  got  him 
to  leave  the  cart  up  yonder  at  that  cottage,  made  him 
get  in.  I  took  the  baby,  it  was  little  and  sick,  and 
gave  him  the  reins ;  he  was  fonder  of  horses  even  than 
I  am." 

"Did  the  baby  cry?"  she  asked,  solemnly,  for  she 
was  thinking  of  her  own  child. 

"It  began  a  bit,  but  I  hushed  it.  After  a  little  it 
went  to  sleep.  Do  you  like  children?" 

She  smiled.  "Not  too  much,  on  general  principles. 
There  was  once  a — baby — that  I  loved,  but  it — is 
dead." 

Unconsciously  he  pictured  her  to  himself  with  a 
little  child  in  her  arms,  the  littlest  kind  of  a  child; 
and  as  the  picture  came  before  him,  the  frame  rose  up 
about  it  as  of  gold  stuck  full  of  gems,  and  there  was  a 
heavenly  halo  all  around  the  mother's  head,  and  it 
was  in  a  shrine,  in  a  big,  dark  church.  He  knelt  be- 
fore it  in  mute  adoration.  Yet  he  was  guiding  his 
automobile  in  a  most  perfectly  conventional  way,  and 
in  his  eyes,  sombre  and  most  tender,  there  was  yet 
scarcely  a  hint  of  his  imaginings. 

In  another  moment  he  spoke.     "Will  you  let  me 
144 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

remember,  will  you  remember  with  me,  to-day,  that 
time  in  Languedoc,  when  we  first  met?" 

"Would  it  not  be  better  to  ignore  it,  Mr.  Travers? 
Then  I  was — myself.  Now  I  am  your  private  secre- 
tary. Things  have  altered." 

"No,"  he  returned,  "you  are,  pardon  me,  still  your- 
self. A  blessed  chance  brought  you  to  me.  I  had 
been  searching  for  you  always  ever  since." 

She  did  not  move  or  even  glance  up.  He  went  on. 
"That  day  I  made  all  sorts  of  inquiry" everywhere,  to 
no  purpose.  Since  then  I  have  been  almost  around 
the  whole  world,  back  and  forth,  in  and  out.  I  have 
been  always  looking  for  you.  At  last  you  came." 
Still  the  girl  beside  him  said  nothing. 

"Did  you  ever  once  think  of  me?"  he  pursued. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

"  Did  you  " — he  hesitated — "  ever  have  the  idea  that 
you  would  like  to  see  me  again?" 

"Yes."  He  looked  down  at  her,  and  his  hand 
gripped  the  throttle  while  his  smile  came  quickly. 

"You  are  not  sorry  we  have  met  again?" 

"No,"  very  slowly.  Then  she  started,  for  it  was 
growing  twilight.  "I'd  like  to  get  out  here;  it  has 
stopped  raining.  I  will  walk  down  or  take  the  car  at 
the  Bronx." 

"  No,  no  " — he  spoke  quickly — "not  yet.  It  has  been 
such  a  little  while.  The  fresh  air,  after  that  steam- 
heated  office,  will  do  you  good."  She  shook  her  head. 
"Besides,  there  are  more  things  I  am  going  to  ask 
you  to  recollect  for  me." 

"More  things?"  she  ejaculated,  and  trembled  as  she 
repeated  his  words. 

"Yes."     He  drew  out  his  fob  and  the  turquoise 

145 


THE   UNDEFILED 

ring  that  hung  from  it.  She  trembled  still  more  in- 
tensely with  delight  It  was  unspeakably  sweet  to 
her  to  know  that  he  had  been  the  one  through  whose 
instrumentality  she  had,  that  long-ago  night,  regained 
her  freedom.  But  she  was  also  confused,  chagrined, 
overcome  with  the  piercing  memories  of  her  past.  In- 
stantly it  flashed  through  her  brain  that  he  would 
expect  and  want  a  complete  account  of  that  past — at 
least  in  so  far  as  it  related  to  that  mysterious  ad- 
venture. Certainly  the  average,  even  the  exceptional, 
man  would  naturally  look  for  an  accounting;  not  as 
necessarily  his  due,  owing  to  their  relations  as  em- 
ployer and  employed,  as  the  woman  whose  life  a  man 
had  saved,  as  the  woman  accepting  attentions  from  a 
man — but  because  she  was  herself  and  he  was  himself, 
because  he  had  found  her  whom  he  had  sought,  be- 
cause she  had  been  sent  to  him.  All  this  rushed 
through  her  mind,  and  with  it  came  also  a  great 
thrill  of  relief,  of  content,  of  breathing  full  and  splen- 
didly. How  good  it  would  be  to  tell  him  everything, 
all!  She  looked  up  bravely  into  his  eyes. 

"You  naturally  are  curious?" 

"Not  a  bit!  Curious  about  you!"  His  tone  was 
radiantly  incredulous. 

"Interested,  maybe?"  she  amended. 

"Always." 

"You  want  to  know  about — that — time  at  the 
hotel?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  slowed  the  machine  a  little. 

"But,"  she  cried,  excitedly,  and  in  a  whisper,  "I 
want  to  tell  you  all,  all  of  my  past!" 

With  tremulous  yet  daring  fingers  his  hand  closed 
over  hers  under  the  lap-robe.  He  said,  "  I  don't  want 

146 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

your  past.  I  care  nothing  whatever  about  it.  I 
want  " — his  words  sank  almost  to  the  inaudible — "your 
present  and  your  future."  He  withdrew  his  hand, 
he  sat  straight  now  and  looked  ahead,  his  attitude 
demanded  no  reply.  In  complete  silence  they  spun 
down  to  Ninety-sixth  Street,  and  pulled  up  at  the 
curb  before  the  flat -house  where  she  lived.  Con- 
ningsby  was  inside  the  vestibule,  opening  the  door 
with  his  latch-key,  Beatrice  was  beside  him.  They 
did  not  see  the  automobile  or  the  man  who  helped 
Judith  to  get  out  of  it.  They  did  see  Judith  when 
she  came  in  where  they  were.  Beatrice  and  Judith 
had  not  met  closely  since  the  baby's  death. 

"It's  horrid  weather,"  Beatrice  said. 

"Is  it?"  Judith  exclaimed.  "I — why,  yes,  I  sup- 
pose it  is.  Are  you  well?"  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  I  am  well.  No,  I  am  not,  either.  I  have 
not  seen  you  in  a  long  time.  You  are  well;  you  are 
radiant  to-night."  They  were  now  under  the  meagre 
glare  of  the  hall  gas.  "You  look  as  you  used  to  look 
before — I  mean — at  Fairfield." 

"I  suppose  I  do.  Good-night."  She  turned  to  fit 
her  key  in  the  door  of  the  flat,  but  her  husband  had 
been  before  her.  He  held  it  open  for  her,  she  passed 
in,  then  she  turned  back  as  if  suddenly  remembering 
herself,  and  added,  "Won't  you  come  in  and  have 
dinner  with  us  ?  I  dare  say  Bridget  has  something  fit 
to  eat."  Conningsby  held  the  door  open  still  wider. 
He  was  keen  for  the  situation.  He  wondered  what 
each  would  do.  The  wonder  absorbed  him.  Some 
people  might  call  him  a  cad,  others  a  poet;  human 
natures  vary  in  their  estimates. 

Beatrice  Bond  shook  her  head.     "Oh  no,  no,"  she 

147 


THE  UNDEFILED 

said  in  a  frightened  fashion,  as  she  ran  up  the  stairs. 
Then  Conningsby  closed  the  door  and  went  up  after 
her;  he  had  recovered  himself,  and  he  was  tired.  He 
overtook  Beatrice  as  she  was  entering  her  work-room. 

"Why  did  you  come  up?"  she  asked. 

"For  this,"  he  answered,  putting  her  arms  around 
his  neck.  She  looked  at  him  with  the  adulation  that 
he  craved.  He  had  never  even  been  at  the  pains 
to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her.  There  was  no  de- 
mand in  her  composition  scarcely.  She  was  like  many 
women;  she  supplied  what  a  particular  type  of  man 
needed.  Conningsby  took  a  species  of  savage  joy  in 
comparing  what  he  received  from  Beatrice  with  what 
he  had  never  received  from  Judith.  He  felt  that  this 
compensation  was  owing  to  him;  he  experienced  no 
compunctions;  he  said  he  was  doing  no  wrong;  in  fact, 
he  was  making  Beatrice  happy. 

"You  would  follow  me  if  I  went  away?"  he  asked 
her  presently,  with  eagerness. 

"To  the  ends  of  the  world,"  was  her  reply.  "But 
you  are  not  going  away  anywhere?"  in  apprehension. 

"  No,  no,"  he  laughed.  "  It  was  charming  to  be  at 
the  Faxons'  together,  was  it  not?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes.  I  was  happy  watching  you  being  the  centre, 
being  admired.  I  sat  in  the  corner  and  feasted  on  it." 

"Ah!"  he  sighed. 

"Doesn't  she  go  there  sometimes?" 

"Judith?"     Beatrice  nodded. 

"Yes." 

"What  do  you  think  she  thinks?" 

"Of  what?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Of  us." 

"  I  don't  know.  Do  not  occupy  yourself  with  such 
148 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

matters.  She  has  things  which  interest  her.  She  is 
a  sensible  person.  She — "  He  stopped  short.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  him  to  admit  that  Judith  did 
not  love  him ;  his  vanity  could  not  have  brooked  that. 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  in  a  terrified  way.  "  Does 
she  suspect?  Does  she  know  ?"  Her  light  eyes  flamed, 
and  she  clung  to  Sidney  Conningsby's  arm. 

"What  if  she  did,  eh?" 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "No,  that  would  be  horrible. 
What  would  she  think  of  me,  of  you?" 

"Let  us  forget  her,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"But  does  she  forget  us?" 

He  could  not  tell  her  the  truth.  Instead  of  the 
truth  he  kissed  her,  which  is  not  infrequently  a  sub- 
stitute with  many  men  and  a  few  very  subtle  women. 
Ordinarily,  a  kiss  from  Sidney  Conningsby  would  have 
put  every  other  consideration  out  of  Beatrice  Bond's 
brain,  but  on  this  occasion  it  seemed  rather  to  accu- 
mulate her  thoughts  on  the  situation.  Presently  he 
left  her,  and  went  down  to  his  place  and  ate  his  dinner. 
Then  he  went  out  again,  to  the  first  night  of  some  im- 
portant play  by  one  of  his  club  friends.  She  saw  him 
go,  and  watched  his  tall  figure  as  far  as  she  could,  up 
to  the  corner  and  into  the  trolley-car.  She  had  been 
thinking  all  the  time  since  he  left  her  that  she  must 
see  Judith  that  evening;  the  impulse  was  irresisti- 
ble, so  now  she  arranged  her  dress  and  hair,  and  went 
down.  Judith  greeted  her  with  gracious  courtesy,  and 
made  her  sit  down  near  the  heat,  and  offered  her  fruit 
and  cake,  the  remnants  of  their  dessert.  Beatrice  ap- 
pealed to  her  in  a  dumb,  inarticulate  fashion,  and  the 
unconscious  admiration  in  the  guest's  glances  enter- 
tained the  hostess  in  a  pathetic  sort  of  way. 

149 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"I  haven't  been  down  since — the  baby  died,  be- 
cause I  fancied  you  didn't  care  to  see  people  much," 
Beatrice  said,  haltingly. 

Judith  sighed,  and  said:  "No.  Well,  what  are  you 
doing — painting  always,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  I  cannot  work  any  more.  I  have  stopped.  I 
just  sit  and  do  nothing."  She  spoke  in  a  serious, 
dogged  fashion. 

"How's  that?  You  had  so  many  orders  the  last 
time  we  talked  together.  Are  they  all  done?  You 
are  taking  a  rest  ?"  She  spoke  kindly. 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  rest!"  the  pale  girl  ex- 
claimed in  such  an  anguished  tone  that  the  other  re- 
garded her  in  amazement.  Did  not  Conningsby's 
love,  then,  bring  to  this  woman  the  peace  which  love 
should  bestow,  even  forbidden  love,  even  love  with  a 
halter  around  its  neck  ?  There  was  a  minute  of  pecul- 
iar silence  between  these  two.  Judith  Harriman  was 
by  no  means  abnormal.  Even  if  she  did  not  care  for 
her  husband,  she  still  felt  the  sting  and  slight  of  his 
having  ceased  to  care  for  her.  Recognizing  fully  the 
justice  of  his  new  absorption,  since  love  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  made  or  kept  to  order,  she  yet  was  a  little  restive 
under  the  situation.  At  the  same  time,  she  looked  at 
Beatrice,  and  was  sorry  for  her,  much  more  sorry  than 
she  was  for  her  own  past  or  her  own  blighted  present. 
In  a  dim  fashion,  she  felt  that  having  married  Sidney 
Conningsby  without  the  love  that  she  had  only  half 
realized  her  own  capacity  for,  she  had  not  any  great 
right  to  object  to  his  defection.  And  she  experienced, 
as  she  sat  there  with  Beatrice,  a  great  compassion  for 
the  woman  who  really  loved  a  man  who  was  inca- 
pable of  an  unselfish  love  for  any  one  —  at  least, 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

that  was  Mrs.  Conningsby's  valuation  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"It  is  only  perhaps  because  you  haven't  found  it 
yet,"  she  said,  at  last.  "But  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
rest — perfect  rest." 

"In  death!" 

"No,  in  life."  Judith  recollected  Travers,  and  then 
with  a  great  effort  she  put  him  aside.  He  was  her 
employer,  he  must  remain  so;  she  would  not  go  any- 
where with  him  again.  She  was  Conningsby's  wife; 
there  was  just  now  no  road  open  to  breaking  from 
that  fact.  She  would  not,  must  not,  think,  or  hope, 
or  dream.  But  she  was  pitiful  for  this  overwrought 
girl  who  sat  rocking  nervously  in  her  presence. 

"If  I  could  believe  that.  Do  you  really  believe  it? 
Have  you  found  it?  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  you  must 
have,  with  your  husband." 

Judith  smiled.  For  an  instant  she  had  the  thought 
that  Beatrice  was  diverting  herself,  for  she  assumed 
that  Sidney  must  have  informed  her  how  matters 
stood.  Then  she  felt  the  injustice  of  her  surmise. 
Beatrice's  tone  easily  revealed  her  as  fancying  herself 
the  supplanter  of  a  devotedly  attached  wife. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  asked  Judith. 

"Oh,  because,"  the  large  light  eyes  shone  with  en- 
thusiasm, "such  a  man  must  bring  every  good  to  the 
woman — whom — he — marries,"  she  concluded  her 
sentence,  haltingly.  "Who — loves — him,"  she  hastily 
amended,  glancing  at  Judith.  Then  after  she  had 
looked  at  Conningsby's  wife,  she  sprang  up  from  the 
rocking-chair,  and  clasping  her  hands  together,  she 
cried  out:  "Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  Why 
did  I  come  down  here?" 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Judith  rose  and  went  near  the  other  girl.  She  did 
not  touch  her;  a  defined  but  unworded  instinct  kept 
her  from  that.  Frankly  it  was  a  repulsion.  She  said, 
in  a  low  tone:  "You  are  nervous  and  worn  out,  un- 
strung by  many  things.  Let  me  get  you  some  wine." 
She  laughed  here,  adding,  "I  hope  I  have  some,"  and 
went  into  the  dining-room  to  look  for  it.  She  thought 
Beatrice  would  have  recovered  herself  by  the  time  she 
got  back;  she  did  not  hurry.  But  when  she  returned, 
Beatrice  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  with  her 
hands  tightly  locked  together,  and  she  said,  when  the 
wine  was  offered  to  her: 

"No,  no;  don't  be  good  to  me.  Not  you,  of  all 
people.  You  should  hate  and  spurn  me,  and  put  me 
out,  and  trample  upon  me.  I  should  want  to  do  that 
if  I  were  in  your  place  and  you  were  in  mine." 
'  Judith  was  always  of  women  the  most  daring  and 
unexpected,  so  she  said,  quietly,  "Why?"  and  awaited 
the  answer. 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  fascinated,  com- 
pelled, not  unwillingly,  but  gratuitiously  and  honestly. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  she  asked. 

Judith  said,  "Yes,  of  course,"  and  sat  down  on  the 
couch. 

"Because,"  Beatrice  Bond  darted  over  to  her, 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her,  laid  her  head 
in  Judith's  lap,  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  she 
trembled,  shivered — "because,"  she  whispered,  broken- 
ly, "I  love  your  husband." 

"Yes — I  know."  The  wife's  voice  was  low,  very 
thrilling,  very  sweet,  compassionate. 

"He  had  not  told  you?"  the  other  one  cried,  in 
stupefaction. 

152 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

"No,  by  no  means;  oh  no.  One  feels  certain  things 
perhaps.  Don't  sob  so,"  for  Beatrice  was  shaking 
with  her  strange  revelation  and  her  emotion. 

"But  you — you  don't  reproach  me?  You  are  not 
angry  with  me?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  a  dull  and  commonplace  way. 

"Don't  you  care?"  said  the  other  girl,  as  if  she 
would  goad  her  companion  into  some  show  of  feeling. 

Judith  answered:  "It's  this  way,  I  think,  with  love, 
Beatrice.  If  I  loved  a  man  to  desperation,  and  he 
turned  from  caring  for  me  to  another,  that  would  be 
enough.  His  happiness  must  be  first  of  all  with  me. 
If  he  found  it  with  some  one  else  I  should  say  yes.  I 
could  not  care  the  same  way  for  him,  because  I  am 
one  of  those  women  to  be  won,  not  to  give  myself  un- 
sought." There  was  an  unconscious  prick  in  her 
speech;  she  did  not  dream  that  Beatrice  had  loved 
first.  "  If,  on  the  other  hand,  I  did  not  love  the  man, 
and  his  love  went  from  me,  it  would  hurt  my  pride, 
no  doubt ;  things  would  have  to  be  adjusted.  But  one 
could  not  want  to  appear  to  retain  what  was  not  one's 
own." 

"But  don't  you  care?"  insisted  the  other  girl,  reck- 
lessly. She  was  thoroughly  mystified,  and  found  it 
impossible  to  grasp  the  idea  of  any  woman's  not  aclor- 
ing  Conningsby  after  having  been  his  wife  surely. 

"  I  think,  if  you'll  forgive  my  saying  so,  that  that  is 
a  matter  which  belongs  to  me,  and  perhaps  to  Mr. 
Conningsby."  She  spoke  with  great  gentleness  and 
greater  dignity. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!  Forgive  me  for  it  all,  all!  I 
can't  help  it.  I  can't  help  it.  I  loved  him  long  be- 
fore you  ever  saw  him." 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive." 

"But  to  steal  his  heart  away  from  you!"  She  was 
implacable  in  her  thoughtlessness  and  her  self-imposed 
candor. 

Judith  smiled  wanly.  "If  one  could  steal  away  a 
man's  heart  it  were  better  stolen.  It — is — all — un- 
fortunate." She  spoke  perfunctorily.  "Very  soon  I 
am  going  away,  and  perhaps  things  will  be  different 
for  you  both.  Divorce  is  possible.  It  would  be  just 
in  this  case." 

Beatrice  looked  at  her.  Could  it  be  that  this 
woman  had  ever  known  the  riches  of  Sidney  Con- 
ningsby's  love?  Was  she  marble,  ice,  or  what?  But 
very  quickly  her  mind  turned  from  any  such  con- 
templations. 

"I  suppose  you  hate  me?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"Because  of  him.  You  say  you  are  going  away. 
Your  life,  then,  is  to  be  broken  up,  and  I — I  am  the 
cause!" 

"You  said  you  could  not  help  it." 

"I  could  not." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  thought  about 
it,  except  that — I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"You  are?"  in  amazement. 

"Yes." 

"But" — shamedly,yet  with  pride — "he  loves  me." 

Judith  looked  at  her  in  silence,  then  Beatrice  burst 
into  tears  again,  and  sobbed  and  became  hysterical, 
crying  out:  "I  know  I  am  a  monster,  I  am  unnatural, 
horrible,  to  be  talking  like  this  to  you,  to  his  wife, 
but  it  enrages  me  to  suspect  that  you  do  not — you 
never  have — loved  him  or  valued  him  as  he  deserved, 


THE  MAN  IN  LANGUEDOC 

as  he  needed.  It  is  your  fault  if  you  have  lost  him." 
She  was  in  a  paroxysm. 

Judith  sighed.  "Try  to  quiet  yourself,  and  remem- 
ber that  to  me  the  love  that  can  be  lost  is  worthless. 
That  ought  to  comfort — and — to  steady  you." 

Beatrice  stared  at  her  in  anger.  She  was  haggard, 
dishevelled,  unpleasing. 

"You  love  some  one  else,  or  you'd  never  take  it  like 
this,"  she  whispered,  like  a  tigress. 

"Hush,  hush!"  Mrs.  Conningsby  said,  softly.  "You 
don't  know  what  you're  saying.  Go  up  to  your  aunt, 
and  try  to  be  quiet,  and  to  sleep,  and  to  forget  this 
visit  to  me."  She  pushed  her  visitor  a  little  out  of 
the  room,  saw  her  started  on  the  staircase,  came  in, 
closed  her  door,  and  after  a  long  while  addressed  an 
envelope  to  the  Duke  de  Montresor.  Then,  before  she 
went  to  bed,  she  burned  it  in  the  kitchen  fireplace. 


XII 

IN    THE    PARK    ONB    AFTERNOON 

WHEN  Conningsby  came  in  that  night  at  about 
one  o'clock,  Judith  was  still  sitting  before  the  fire 
in  that  kitchen,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  round,  open  hole  where  the  coals  burned 
red  and  hot.  She  was  thinking  it  out,  looking  things 
squarely  in  the  face,  not  putting  anything  in  hiding, 
not  ignoring  anything  on  either  side.  Her  first  idea 
was  never  to  go  to  Travers's  office  again,  to  stop  short 
without  explanation  or  warning.  That  would  seem 
the  only  right  path  to  pursue.  It  would  or  would  not 
be  easy  to  procure  another  position.  She  would  stay 
with  her  husband  a  little  longer,  until  his  career  was 
once  more  reassured;  she  had  promised,  she  would 
fulfil.  Afterwards  ?  Well,  that  remained  to  be  proved 
according  to  Conningsby 's  will.  At  least,  she  could 
not  be  compelled,  even  by  him,  to'  live  under  the  same 
roof.  As  to  separation,  divorce,  that  should  be  his 
decision.  Of  course,  he  would  wish  to  marry  Bea- 
trice. Why  not?  Life  had  taught  her  that  however 
poetic  and  exquisitely  perfect  and  true  it  might  be  to 
regard  a  happy  marriage  as  a  sacrament,  the  bald  fact 
remained  that  many  marriages  were  mere  civil  con- 
tracts, and,  by  the  dispensation  of  a  merciful  legislat- 
ure, liable  to  an  annulment  —  grievous  mistakes  of 

156 


IN  THE  PARK  ONE  AFTERNOON 

judgment  which,  happily,  the  laws  permitted  to  be 
rectified.  A  second  marriage  for  herself  was,  in  the 
light  of  the  present  status  between  Conningsby  and 
Beatrice  Bond,  distinctly  repellent  to  her  mood  and 
her  thought.  But  to  give  up  seeing  Travers  ? 

She  recollected  his  words  about  her  present  and  her 
future;  she  recollected  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  hers, 
the  light  in  his  blue  eyes.  She  sank  upon  her  knees 
before  the  miserable  little  dying  fire  in  the  flat  kitchen, 
and  the  struggle  -in  her  soul  was  strong.  Her  early 
environment,  her  rearing,  her  inheritance,  one-half  of 
it  was  all  in  rank  opposition  to  such  a  struggle. 
Where  she  had  lived  and  moved,  such  a  warfare  would 
have  been  laughed  at.  Yet  she  wept.  But  also  it  is 
likely  she  loved,  and  she  was  of  those  pre-eminently 
prescient  women  who  feel  and  know  what  is  to  come, 
and  may  dare  to  trust  their  intuitions  and  act  as  if 
they  were  secure  in  the  things  they  foresaw.  Must 
she,  then,  throw  away  this  man's  companionship? 
Must  she  wound  the  truest,  loyalest  soul  that  she  had 
yet  met?  Must  she  put  away  from  her  the  best  and 
dearest  thing  in  life,  and  walk  out  empty  handed  and 
alone?  Why  should  she  not  hold  to  him?  Why 
should  she  not — well — what?  It  was  as  well  to  call 
things  by  their  right  names.  Why  should  she  not 
play  with  fire,  so  long  as  she  did  not  receive  burns? 
Why  not?  She  rose  from  her  knees.  Truly,  it  was  a 
strange,  odd  game  they  four  were  playing.  Why  not 
go  on  playing  it  to  the  end  ?  Its  flavor  of  mystery,  its 
ingredient  of  a  certain  kind  of  risk  fascinated  her. 
Was  it  wrong?  she  asked  herself.  And  the  answer 
came:  No,  it  might  be  rash,  but  there  was  no  wrong  in 
it  as  yet,  nor  would  there  be.  She  was  confident. 

157 


THE  UNDEFILED 

She  knew  herself.  Occasionally  there  occurs  a  woman 
who  really  does  know  herself  in  such  an  affair  as  this. 
So  Judith  went  down  to  Travers's  office  the  following 
day,  and  got  through  with  her  duties  as  usual;  much 
as  usual — not  quite.  Travers  was  unwilling  for  her  to 
do  all  that  she  generally  did,  and  showed  it  with  de- 
termination. Inwardly  he  was  chafing  at  her  being 
there  at  all,  and  counting  the  hours  until  he  should 
be  in  a  position  to  ask  her  not  to  come  there  any 
more.  But  he  was  not  confident.  He  trembled  with 
apprehension  and  fear.  Perhaps  he  was  not  a  bold 
and  courageous  wooer,  or  possibly  he  was  so  much  of 
a  worshipper  that  a  great  and  thrilling  fear  was  a  com- 
ponent part  of  his  feeling  for  this  woman. 

Some  days  went  on.  Judith  avoided  him  a  little. 
She  was  first  and  always  a  coquette,  inherently,  in- 
excusably, deliciously;  secondly,  the  bulwark  of  her 
intuitive  faith  in  the  outcome  was  continually  assailed 
by  the  balanced  quality  of  her  brain.  These  two 
elements  warred  within  her  each  day,  each  time  she 
saw  Travers.  At  last  on  Saturday  morning,  after 
having  attempted  in  vain  to  get  a  word  with  his  sec- 
retary, Travers  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  this 
on  it: 

"  Won't  you  come  with  me  this  afternoon  for  a  little  turn 
in  our  Park?  The  auto  will  be  at  the  door  here  in  half  an 
hour.  It's  a  perfect  day.  It  will  do  you  good. 

"Yours,  B.  T." 

He  got  up,  crossed  the  room  to  her  alcove,  laid  the 
folded  paper  on  her  desk,  and  said:  "Some  orders  for 
this  afternoon,  Miss  Harriman.  Kindly  note  down 
that  you  understand  them,  and  tell  me."  He  with- 

158 


IN  THE  PARK  ONE  AFTERNOON 

drew  a  few  paces  and  waited.  In  vain.  She  read 
his  note,  but  her  face,  her  attitude  were  indicative  of 
nothing.  Presently  she  glanced  up  at  the  clock,  then 
at  her  watch,  rose,  got  her  coat  and  hat  and  gloves, 
and  put  them  on,  and,  saying  "good -morning,"  she 
started  away;  but  she  held  his  scrap  of  paper  in  her 
hand.  She  had  no  particular  thought  or  motive — 
only  the  subtle,  bewitching  instinct  of  wishing  to  be 
persuaded. 

But  Travers  was  not  the  least  subtle.  He  made  a 
dash  after  Miss  Harriman,  but,  proudly  designing,  she 
had  not  given  in  an  inch,  had  not  gone  slowly,  but 
quite,  as  usual,  quickly,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
her  she  was  in  a  car  going  up -town.  He  turned  back, 
got  into  the  auto,  and  ordered  himself  taken  to  the 
Park. 

"Our  Park!"  It  sounded  in  Judith's  ears  like  the 
refrain  of  the  sweetest  of  songs.  She  furtively  looked 
at  the  words  a  dozen  times  as  she  rode  northward  in 
the  trolley-car.  "Our  Park."  She  would  go  to  the 
Park!  Why  not?  She  was  in  a  Lexington  Avenue 
car  by  mistake,  and  rode  on,  finally  alighting  at 
Eighty-sixth  Street,  then  she  walked  westward,  and 
went  into  the  Museum  of  Art.  As  Travers  was  tool- 
ing by  that  architectural  pile  he  caught  sight  of  the 
swing  of  her  skirts  going  up  the  steps,  of  the  quick, 
elastic  spring  of  her  two  little  feet.  He  stopped  short, 
jumped  out,  told  the  chauffeur  not  to  wait,  and  fol- 
lowed her,  not  too  quickly,  but  at  a  slight  distance, 
with  all  that  leisurely  exterior  which  was  part  of  this 
man,  while  his  heart  throbbed  like  an  engine  at  the 
top  notch  of  capacity.  She  sauntered  along,  with  a 
glance  now  and  then  at  a  picture,  until  she  reached  a 


THE  UNDEFILED 

little  room  given  over  to  inconspicuous  works.  No  one 
was  in  there.  She  wanted  to  think.  Certainly  she 
wanted  to  take  Bob  Travers's  scrawl  once  more  from 
her  pocket  and  read  it.  She  sat  down,  and  did  so ;  a 
slip  of  the  sunshine  fell  on  her  hair.  He  came  to  the 
little  room,  stood  at  the  entrance  eating  her  up  with 
eyes.  She  felt  that  he  was  near  her,  but  she  did  not 
stir.  She  was  most  intensely  happy,  so  happy  that 
she  did  not  care  to  move.  She  felt  that  he  was  even 
more  happy  than  she  was,  and  that  but  rendered  the 
moment  more  divinely  beatific.  To  a  woman  like 
Judith  no  happiness  can  compare  with  that  which 
she  confers  on  the  man  she  cares  for.  Was  it  strange 
that  this  man  and  woman,  so  different,  so  unlike  each 
other,  should  have  had  at  that  instant  an  almost  iden- 
tical thought  ?  Travers  said  to  himself,  as  he  stood  still 
there  staring  at  her:  "This  is  the  threshold  of  heaven. 
I  will  never  stand  just  in  this  place  again  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  will  enter  into  heaven  if  she  wills;  but  this 
instant,  this  wonderful  instant,  cannot  ever  come 
again.  I  am  crowning  my  queen.  It  is  her  corona- 
tion day." 

And  Judith  Harriman  thought  to  herself:  "This 
hour  has  come;  it  can  never  come  again.  Shall  I  let 
it  come?  or  shall  I  get  up  and  run  away,  and  put  it 
off?  How  can  I?  He  is  here.  He  calls  me.  He 
will  make  me  answer.  I  must.  It  is  his  day,  and  he 
is  master." 

Then  Travers  left  the  entranceway  and  came  over  to 
her,  and  stood  in  front  of  her  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"May  I  sit  down  beside  you?"  he  asked. 

She  moved  a  trifle  on  the  seat,  and  her  big,  beauti- 
ful eyes  swept  over  him  with  a  soft,  entrancing  look. 

1 60 


IN  THE  PARK    ONE  AFTERNOON 

"You  would  not  answer  my  little  note." 

She  moved  her  fingers  and  showed  him  the  scrap  of 
paper  between  them. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  is  answered.  I  am  here.  We 
are  here  together.  That  was  what  I  wanted,  to  be 
with  you  in  the  Park,  any  place,  only  to  be  with  you." 

She  looked  vaguely  at  the  pictures  opposite  them 
on  the  walls,  and  said,  "Do  you  like  pictures?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  He  was  not  annoyed  at  the 
digression;  he  felt  as  one  does  once  in  a  while,  as  if 
time  were  eternity,  and  there  was  all  eternity  in 
which  to  compass  the  ends  of  love.  It  was  because 
he  knew  his  love  for  her  to  be  illimitable,  and  that 
knowledge  colored  all  the  other  things  in  the  world. 

"Yes,  I  like  them;  at  least,  I  know  which  ones  I 
like." 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  in  a  gentle  little  way.  "That 
sounds  so  bourgeois;  you  are  not  bourgeois.  Please, 
just  say  you  like  them,  and  no  more." 

He  smiled.  It  delighted  him  to  observe  her  slight- 
ly dogmatic  and  wholly  aristocratic  fashion  of  de- 
fining things.  He  revelled  in  being  found  fault  with 
by  her.  It  was  to  him  as  exciting  and  adventurous 
to  hear  this  girl  talk,  and  to  talk  with  her  about 
things,  as  it  had  ever  been  to  lead  the  rough,  wild, 
exciting  life  of  the  plains.  The  same  quality  of  un- 
certainty, surprise,  mystery  dwelt  in  her  as  in  them. 
The  plains,  moonlighted,  starlighted,  sunlighted,  storm- 
shrouded,  are  never  entirely  understood  or  fathomed. 
So  it  would  be  with  Judith ;  he  knew  that. 

"Do  you  mind  my  finding  fault  with  you?  It  is 
presumptuous.  You  must  forgive  me." 

"Forgive  you!"  he  whispered,  laying  his  hand  on 
161 


THE  UNDEFILED 

the  fold  of  her  gown  as  it  lay  on  the  wooden  settle 
between  them.  "It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  delicious  to 
have  you  correct  me — to  have  you  deign  to  do  it.  I 
would  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  me  always  when  I  dis- 
please you,  when  I  say  things  that  offend  your  taste. 
There  must  be  many  of  them." 

"Not  so  many,"  she  answered,  lightly.  She  had 
taken  off  her  gloves.  He  took  them  from  her  and 
held  them,  warm  from  her  contact.  There  was  a  short 
silence  between  them.  The  sun  now  shone  on  both 
of  them;  they  felt  its  warmth.  He  watched  her 
breathe,  watched  the  rich  red  blood  rise  in  her  cheeks, 
watched  the  curve  and  quiver  of  her  scarlet  lips,  the 
light  in  her  great  blue  eyes,  the  dark  waves  of  her 
hair.  She  was  dazzling,  luxurious,  dainty.  She  was 
real,  vibrant,  responsive.  Other  women  might  be 
beautiful;  of  course,  there  were  thousands  of  beau- 
tiful women  in  the  world,  but  none  quite  beautiful 
this  way;  none  so  real.  These  others  had,  many  of 
them,  a  fine,  glossy  veneer;  it  soon  wore  off.  They 
were  something  and  some  one  for  three  times,  but  the 
fourth  time  a  man  sat  and  talked  with  them  they 
were  nothing;  what  there  was  was  exhausted.  This 
girl  was  inexhaustible,  immortal. 

"Come,"  she  said,  rising.  "Would  it  not  be  better 
to  look  at  the  things  in  the  other,  bigger  rooms? 
Don't  you  care  to?" 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  look  at  anything  but  you." 

She  laughed  a  little,  and  sat  down  again  in  answer 
to  the  pleading  of  his  eyes. 

"Don't  you  know?"  he  whispered,  in  the  wild  way 
of  a  shipwrecked  man  clinging  to  a  spar. 

"No,  no,"  she  answered,  rising  again,  and  this  time 
162 


IN  THE  PARK  ONE  AFTERNOON 

taking  her  gloves  from  him  and  moving  towards  an- 
other room.  She  went  along  the  suite  of  big  salons; 
he  followed  her,  without  saying  anything.  When  she 
paused  before  this  or  that  picture  he  stopped  also, 
coming  near  to  her,  so  that  he  might  feel  the  soft 
touch  of  her  garments.  She  went  down  the  broad 
stairs,  glanced  at  the  sculpture  gallery,  and  then,  while 
he  held  the  turnstile  for  her,  she  went  out.  She  sighed 
with  pleasure  at  the  keen,  fine  wind  soft  from  the 
southwest. 

"Which  way?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  now  you  may  lead."  She  laughed  up  at  him 
over  the  top  of  her  muff.  It  was  the  quaintest  bit  of 
Orientalism  in  an  American  setting,  the  motion  of  the 
Chinese  woman  who  peeps  over  her  wide  sleeve  with 
a  luring  smile  in  her  tilted  eyes. 

Then  they  walked  on  together  far  up  and  a  bit 
westward  to  that  rather  neglected  part  of  the  en- 
closure which  is  so  quietly  beautiful. 

"Our  Park,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her. 

She  sighed  contentedly. 

"Will  you  sit  down  here  and  rest?" 

"Yes,  just  for  a  minute."  Squirrels  came  out  and 
blinked  at  them;  one  climbed  up  and  jumped  on  Bob 
Travers's  shoulder.  Sparrows  twittered  and  fluttered, 
pecking  at  the  frozen  ground.  The  delicate,  bare 
branches  were  limned  against  a  winter  sky  where  the 
pale  rose  melted  into  cobalt  blue  down  the  horizon. 
Very  far  off,  it  seemed,  one  heard  the  whir  of  the 
living,  busy  city ;  nearer  the  thud  of  a  woodman's  axe 
felling  a  dead  tree.  No  one  close  to  them,  just  the 
sky,  the  earth,  the  trees,  and  they  two.  He  drew 
close  to  her  on  the  bench;  his  eyes  besought  her 

163 


THE  UNDEFILED 

glance;  she  gave  it.     His  breath  came  quickly.    "Oh," 
he  cried,  very  low,  "I  love  you,  love  you!" 

But  she  said  nothing,  only  looked  off  to  where  the 
sun  would  soon  be  setting. 

"Speak  to  me;  just  a  word — one — give  me  a  look." 

She  looked  at  him  fully  in  the  eyes.  It  was  the 
first  taste  of  completeness  that  she  had  ever  experi- 
enced. He  left  her  nothing  to  wish  for.  All  that  had 
gone  before  her  was  forgotten.  Whatever  life  had 
held  of  bitterness  or  pain  counted  as  a  trifle  here  and 
now.  Whatever  after  might  come,  she  would  have 
had  this  moment.  And  Travers?  He  said  nothing, 
asked  nothing  further  then;  he  dared  not.  He  was 
so  imbued  with  the  strange  quality  of  her  elusiveness 
that  nothing,  not  even  his  own  ardent  impetuosity, 
could  have  tempted  him  to  the  risk  of  uttering  any- 
thing more.  His  hand  lay  on  her  long  coat;  he 
raised  the  hem  of  it  to  his  lips;  she  drew  it  from  him 
in  remonstrance.  Then  his  strong  hand  clasped  hers, 
and  he  would  have  drawn  her  into  his  arms,  but  still 
something  about  her  stayed  him.  She  laid  a  half-timid 
finger  on  his  cheek,  then  started  away  from  him  like 
a  frightened  child,  and  when  he  rose  up  and  followed 
her,  she  said:  "Come,  let  us  walk  fast.  It  is  cold, 
cold!" 

"Are  you  cold?"  he  asked,  tenderly,  while  he  drank 
in  her  beauty  with  hungering  eyes. 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"You  never  shall  be  cold  again  as  long  as  you 
live,"  he  said,  with  his  lips  set  and  firm. 

"No?"  she  laughed.  "How's  that?  Do  you  in- 
sure people  against  winter?" 

He  inclined  his  head. 

164 


IN  THE  PARK  ONE  AFTERNOON 

"How?" 

He  came  very  near  to  her;  he  took  hold  of  her,  to 
help  her  down  some  steps;  he  kept  her  on  one  of  the 
steps  a  full  minute  while  he  said,  "I  will  insure  you 
against  winter,  cold,  harm,  pain,  sorrow,  with  my  love 
and  with  my  arms'-fold  while  I  live."  And  no  words 
from  man's  lips  ever  sounded  sweeter,  stronger,  in  a 
woman's  hearing  than  did  these  that  Bob  Travers 
said  to  Judith  Harriman  that  day.  Presently  they 
came  out  of  the  Park,  and  at  Ninety-sixth  Street  he 
left  her  near  the  corner,  by  her  express  desire. 


XIII 

"BOB" 

THE   card  with    Sidney  Conningsby's  name  on  it 
over  the  letter-box  of  his  flat  fell  out  about  this 
time.     Beatrice  called  his  attention  to  it. 

"It's  no  matter,"  he  replied.  "Most  of  my  mail 
goes  to  the  club,  as  it  is.  Few  people  know  where 
I  really  live.  It  is  as  well  that  they  don't."  He 
laughed  self -scornfully.  "A  scrubby  flat  in  a  second- 
class  neighborhood  isn't  the  ideal  residence  for  a  suc- 
cessful author!" 

Beatrice  sighed.  She  was  sitting  on  a  hassock  at 
Conningsby's  feet,  looking  at  him  with  those  idola- 
trous eyes  of  hers.  He  looked  down  into  them;  he 
fed  upon  them,  much  as  a  vampire  feeds  upon  blood, 
but  he  never  looked  into  this  girl's  light  eyes  with- 
out a  resentful  regret  that  he  had  never  seen  in 
Judith's  eyes  the  worship  that  shone  in  Beatrice 
Bond's.  His  hand  played  with  her  soft,  golden  hair. 
She  was  satisfied.  Judith  had  never  been  satisfied. 
His  arm  fell  around  Beatrice  in  a  curious  way.  She 
trembled  beneath  his  touch.  Judith  had  never  trem- 
bled. 

"Beatrice,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "By-and-by, 
some  day,  if  I  should  ask  you  to  go  away  with  me, 
will  you  go?" 

166 


"BOB" 

She  said  "Yes."     Then  she  whispered  to  him: 

"She  knows.     Judith  knows." 

Sidney  nodded.     "  What  of  it  ?" 

"Nothing,  only  she  said  she  was  going  away,  and 
she  mentioned  divorce."  Beatrice  flushed  painfully; 
her  tone  was  pleading,  interrogative. 

Conningsby  sprang  up.  In  doing  so  he  pushed  her 
away  from  him,  unconsciously,  but  almost  rudely. 
"No,  no,"  he  said,  hastily.  "Impossible.  That  sort 
of  thing  can't  come  into  our  calculations.  It  would 
ruin  me.  Put  it  out  of  your  mind.  She  would  never 
do  such  a  thing;  she  would  let  me  do  it,  perhaps.  I 
will  not  do  it.  Do  you  hear?" 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him.  She  felt  a  bruise  biting 
into  her  flesh  and  spirit,  but  she  hugged  the  hand  that 
dealt  it  only  closer.  She  nodded.  There  was  such  a 
forlornness  in  her  attitude  that  even  he  was  not  im- 
pervious to  it.  He  knelt  down  by  her.  She  was 
kneeling,  too,  at  the  side  of  a  big  chair. 

"You  will  be  mine,"  he  whispered.  "I  will  be  the 
world  for  you.  No  one  shall  know.  You  will  come 
when  I  ask  you  to?  You  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "I  do,  I  do." 

"There;  that  is  all  there  is  to  think  or  say.  You 
will  be  happy;  I  will  be  happy.  We  will  belong  to 
each  other.  It  will  come.  We  must  wait.  Don't 
worry." 

"No,"  she  answered,  raising  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

Consequently,  Conningsby's  card  was  not  replaced 
over  the  letter-box,  and  when  on  the  morning  follow- 
ing Travers's  walk  in  the  Park  with  Judith,  his  Grace 
the  Duke  de  Montre*sor  skipped  nimbly  and  confi- 
dently up  the  few  steps  and  into  the  vestibule,  his  eyes 

167 


THE  UNDEFILED 

were  merely  greeted  with  the  name  of  "Judith  Harri- 
man"  above  the  first  bell.  Nor  had  he  need  to  press 
it,  for  the  house  door  was  always  open.  He  walked 
in,  and  upon  her  own  threshold  Judith,  just  emerg- 
ing, an  hour  behind  her  usual  time,  to  go  down -town 
to  the  office,  obligingly,  if  inadvertently,  met  him. 
She  shrank  back,  and  would  have  closed  the  door  in 
his  face.  But  his  Grace  was  agile  and  much  more 
than  determined.  He  sprang  into  the  apartment,  and 
closed  the  door  upon  himself  and  his  hostess. 

"My  adorable  Judith,  I  find  you!"  exclaimed  the 
Duke,  in  his  native  tongue. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  do." 

"Always  the  same,  beautiful  —  beautiful  as  the 
angels." 

"I  have  to  go  out,"  she  said,  irrelevantly.  "Please 
state  your  errand  and  go  away  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

"But  no,  no,  my  adored  one.  When  you  escaped 
from  my  care — ah,  yes,  it  was,  of  course,  my  care — 
that  unfortunate  evening,  I  was  compelled,  alas!  to 
go  back  to  France  without  you.  I  went  to  the  dear 
mamma  —  ah,  yes,  because  I  had  no  more  money. 
That  was  the  sole  reason  that  I  left  you  so — unpro- 
tected— eh?  Well,  well!"  His  Grace's  keen  eyes  trav- 
elled around  the  Conningsby  flat  in  an  appraising 
fashion.  The  mistress  of  it  remained  immovable. 

"It  is  like  this,  my  adored  Judith.  Oh,  have  not 
such  contemptuous  looks.  I  come  from  the  beloved 
mamma.  We  have  waited  these  two  years,  and  a  little 
more,  because — only  because  we  had  no  money.  Oh 
yes,  it  has  been  sad,  miserable.  We  lost  everywhere 
— Monte  Carlo,  Homburg,  Nice,  Paris.  At  last  I  win! 
Yes!  Three  weeks  ago,  in — where  think  you? — in- 

168 


"BOB" 

credible  spot,  The  Hague.  Yes!  Then  I  say  to  the 
adored  mamma,  '  I  can  now  go  for  our  Judith,  our  lit- 
tle duchess.'" 

The  girl  started,  and  shook  her  head  in  scorn  and 
denial. 

"Well,  well,  then,  our  little  duchess  that  is  to  be," 
he  amended,  with  an  obliging  smile. 

"Is  my  mother  here?"  she  asked,  in  a  harsh,  low 
tone. 

"No,  no;  but  no!"  exclaimed  his  Grace,  vehemently. 
"Mademoiselle,  your  mamma  thought  I  could  best 
bring  you  to  your  senses  alone.  You  will  now  go  back 
with  me,  eh?  This  is  a  poor  environment."  He  cast 
a  contemptuous  glance  about  the  cheaply  furnished 
flat.  "There  you  have  but  to  show  yourself,  and  it 
will  be  millions,  millions — eh?" 

"  How  did  you  find  me  ?"  she  inquired,  after  a  pause, 
for  she  had  never  advised  her  mother  of  her  mar- 
riage. She  was,  so  far  as  her  mother  and  the  Duke 
knew,  "alone,"  as  she  had  told  Travers. 

"Easy;  all  is  easy  with  even  a  little  money.  One 
day — ah,  Fate  is  ever  kind  to  the  Montre"sors — I  be- 
hold in  the  library  of  the  ship  coming  over  a  maga- 
zine. I  turn  the  leaves.  Your  name  assails  me.  I 
arrive.  I  go  to  the  office  of  the  magazine.  I  obtain 
your  address.  I  am  here." 

Clearly  the  Duke  even  now  knew  nothing  of  her 
marriage.  She  was  glad.  She  fancied  that  Con- 
ningsby  in  an  emergency  of  this  particular  nature 
would  be  found  very  much  wanting.  He  was  facile 
enough,  but  not  executive,  and  he  shifted  responsi- 
bility wherever  he  could.  Moreover,  she  would  not 
have  accepted  his  aid. 

169 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Please  go  away,"  she  said. 

"But  no!  Without  you?  Never,  even  if  I  have 
to  abduct  you  again.  I  will  take  you  back  with  me 
this  time  surely.  Listen  to  me.  Very  well,  beloved 
Judith."  His  Grace  approached  her,  and  looked  fix- 
edly into  her  eyes.  "It  is  not  well  to  resist  too  much 
or  too  long.  The  law  is  with  me  and  with  your 
charming  mamma.  I  stop  at  nothing.  I  take  you 
back  to  France,  to  your  own.  I  am  desperate.  I 
leave  nothing  undone.  The  game  is  worth  many 
candles.  You  and  millions  —  sacree!"  His  Grace's 
eloquence  halted. 

"But  I  won't  go!" 

Montre"sor  laughed  as  if  highly  amused,  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  bell  rang.  Mrs.  Conningsby  crossed 
the  room  and  opened  the  door.  Travers  stood  there 
and  walked  in  at  once. 

"I  have  been  worried  about  your  not  coming  down. 
I  came  up  to  find  out — are  you —  "  Then  he  saw  the 
Duke,  and  his  fine  eyes  flashed  as  he  inclined  his  head. 

"Monsieur!"  His  Grace  brought  his  high  heels  to- 
gether, and  bowed  profoundly,  while  a  slightly  equivo- 
cal expression  passed  over  his  aquiline  features." 

"The  Duke  de  Montre'sor  and  I  have  met  before, 
Miss  Harriman." 

She  bowed. 

"Ah,  but  yes,  that  is  indeed  a  fact.  When  I  had  the 
honor  to  meet  monsieur  before,  he  was  mute." 

Again  both  Miss  Harriman  and  Bob  Travers  in- 
clined their  heads.  Travers  surveyed  the  Duke;  he 
then  glanced  at  Judith.  "Has  this  man  been  annoy- 
ing you?"  he  asked,  in  a  short,  quick  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  under  her  breath.  How  un- 
170 


"BOB" 

utterably  good  it  was  to  have  him  there,  to  feel  the 
perfect  safety  of  his  presence. 

Travers  opened  the  door,  and,  indicating  it  to  the 
Duke,  he  said,  "I  think  you  had  better  go." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  His  Grace  paced  in  the  opposite 
direction.  "Is  monsieur,  then,  the  master  here?  I 
came  from  the  mother  of  mademoiselle,  to  implore,  to 
command  mademoiselle  to  return  to  France  to  fulfil 
the  law,  to  take  her  honorable  place  in  the  world." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go  to  your  mother  ?"  Travers  asked 
of  her,  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door  he  had  closed. 

"No,"  she  replied,  clearly.  "I  will  not  go,  but  the 
Duke  has  threatened  to  steal  me  away.  It's  absurd; 
but  I  know  of  what  he  has  been  capable  in  the  past." 

"Go,  my  dear  sir,  go,"  Bob  said,  in  a  low,  advisory 
tone,  "and  save  me  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  put- 
ting you  out." 

"Ah!  Is  monsieur,  then,  as  I  suspected  long  since, 
the  good  friend  and  protector  of  mademoiselle  ?  Mon- 
sieur, then,  should  perhaps  know  of  the  past  of  mad- 
emoiselle," he  sneered  and  smiled.  "Shall  I  tell  mon- 
sieur, mademoiselle?" 

"Yes, 'tell  him,"  she  said,  doggedly. 

"Spare  yourself,"  Bob  Travers  said,  coldly.  "I 
know  Miss  Harriman's  past  better  than  you  do. 
Now!"  He  seized  the  Frenchman  by  his  collar, 
opened  the  door  once  more,  and  landed  his  victim  on 
the  sidewalk  in  short  order.  He  kicked  him  as  he 
muttered,  "Hound!"  and  turned  on  his  heel  and  came 
back  into  her  little  parlor. 

"My  girl,"  he  said,  his  voice  quivering  with  pas- 
sionate protectiveness.  He  drew  her  to  him,  but  she 
slipped  away  from  him. 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  He  obeyed  her,  and  she  sat 
near  him  on  a  little  hassock;  her  hands  were  clasped 
around  her  knees,  her  face  was  pale  and  drawn,  but 
never  so  lovely,  so  entrancing,  as  now  to  him,  in  its 
pain  and  its  appeal. 

"Now,  let  me  tell  you,"  she  went  on. 

"Tell  me  what?"  he  said. 

"About — the  past — about  what  the  Duke  meant 
just  now." 

Bob  Travers  rose  and  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  "I 
don't  want  to  know  it.  I  know  all  I  care  to.  I  love 
you,  I  want  you.  Will  you  be  my  wife?  Can  you 
love  me  a  little,  just  a  little?"  He  hurried  the  words 
out  breathlessly.  While  he  was  speaking  them  Con- 
ningsby  came  home,  and  was  about  to  fit  his  key  in 
the  latch,  when,  hearing  voices,  and  being  averse  to 
meeting  any  of  his  wife's  friends  nowadays,  he  put 
the  key  back  in  his  pocket  and  went  to  his  studio. 

Judith  was  very  still;  she  scarcely  breathed  for  a 
moment.  She  had  no  thoughts;  then  they  came, 
and  she  struggled  to  free  herself  from  the  subjugation 
of  this  great  love  that  had  come  to  her  unbidden. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  cried,  in  a  terrified  way. 

"You  don't  love  me?  Just  the  least,  just  a  hope?" 
His  voice  shook. 

"  It  isn't  that.     It  is— " 

"What  is  it?" 

"There  is  something  between  us — a  reason." 

He  laughed  in  joy.  "A  reason?  Is  that  all  there 
is  between  us?  Well,  well,  we  will  soon  be  rid  of  all 
reasons." 

"No,  no." 

"I  will  wait,"  he  whispered,  in  exultation.  "Mean- 
172 


"BOB" 

time,  I  am  loving  you  more  and  more  each  moment  I 
live." 

She  walked  away  from  him;  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
treading  on  burning  ploughshares.  She  came  back; 
she  must  tell  him  of  her  husband.  She  opened  her 
lips  to  make  her  revelation,  and  then  with  a  mad  rush, 
everything  —  Beatrice,  the  life  that  Conningsby  was 
forcing  her  to  live,  his  inane,  almost  insane,  selfish- 
ness— swept  through  her  brain.  She  could  not  endure 
that  Travers  should  know  she  was  another  man's  wife. 
She  would  keep  still  awhile,  and  then  by-and-by, 
when  she  got  away,  she  would  tell  him.  Why  not? 
She  looked  at  him  with  her  pleading  eyes. 

"  You  must  leave  me  now,"  she  said. 

"My  girl — mine!"  he  whispered. 

She  lowered  her  lids. 

"Say  Bob,  just  once,"  he  begged. 

"Bob." 


XIV 

THE    CHASE    TO    THE    PIER 

THE  Duke  de  Montre*sor  was  a  very  pertinacious 
personage;  he  was,  moreover,  playing  for  high 
stakes,  as  well  as  for  possession  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
such  love  as  his  Grace's  article  might  be.  He  was  also 
a  politic  personage,  although  no  coward,  and  there 
had  been  something  compelling,  not  only  about  Mr. 
Travers's  boot-heel,  but  about  Mr.  Travers's  indi- 
viduality, which  caused  his  Grace  to  pause  in  his 
career  for  at  least  one  half-day.  This  was  also  pos- 
sibly compulsory,  as  his  bruises  needed  mending  and 
a  doctor.  At  the  close  of  that  half -day  Mr.  Travers's 
name  was  'phoned  up  to  him.  He  said,  "Show  the 
gentleman  here  to  my  room."  He  anticipated  a 
challenge,  and  fancied  the  second  must  have  used  his 
principal's  name  merely  for  the  purposes  of  identi- 
fication. Travers  presently  came  in;  he  declined  a 
seat. 

"Sorry,"  he  remarked,  "that  I  was  obliged  to  give 
your  Grace  such  rough  handling  this  morning,  and  I 
just  came  here  now  to  say  this,  that  I  have  put  a 
couple  of  the  smartest  private  detectives  in  the  city 
on  your  Grace's  tracks,  and  from  this  on  you're  be- 
ing watched  day  and  night,  so  that  any  attempt  on 
your  part  to  molest  Miss  Harriman  will  prove  useless, 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

and  the  very  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  get  out  of  the 
country,  and  avoid  arrest  for  threatening  to  kidnap." 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  exclaimed  his  Grace,  whose  diplo- 
matic training  stood  him  in  excellent  stead,  and  whose 
ability  to  assume  any  pose  at  a  moment's  warning  had 
been  often  remarked  by  his  associates.  "Ah,  mon- 
sieur, to  think  that  you  could  so  misjudge  a  man 
whose  only  crime  is  an  endeavor  to  reunite  a  mother 
and  her  child  who  have  become  estranged.  If  mon- 
sieur is  really  the  protector — " 

"See  here,"  cried  Travers,  lifting  his  arm,  "I'll 
knock  you  into  hell  if  you  make  any  more  insinua- 
tions either  to  my  face  or  behind  my  back!  Good- 
morning."  He  went  away. 

Montresor  laughed  unpleasantly.  He  was  for  the 
moment  defeated.  Two  detectives  must  necessarily 
block  the  little  game  he  had  been  planning  to  make 
off  with  Judith  Harriman.  Nevertheless,  his  Grace, 
notwithstanding  the  really  battered  condition  of 
his  face,  took  a  train  that  very  evening  for  Fairfield. 
He  entertained  agreeable  recollections  of  Caroline. 
Caroline  duplicated  his  reminiscences  in  kind,  and, 
notwithstanding  her  pronounced  aversion  and  con- 
tempt for  the  nobility,  she  was  not  ill  pleased  to  go 
up  with  him  to  town  the  following  day  and  establish 
herself  in  a  certain  hotel  in  Eleventh  Street.  Mon- 
tresor, holding  the  brace  of  detectives  in  cheerful  rec- 
ollection, had  not  called  ostensibly  on  Caroline,  but 
rather  on  the  proprietor  of  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  to  in- 
quire for  rooms.  No  one  lurking  about  the  premises 
could  possibly  have  seen  him  conversing  with  Caroline, 
who  boarded  there  in  the  winter-time,  and  easily  ob- 
tained a  holiday  and  a  substitute  at  her  school  in  the 

175 


THE  UNDEFILED 

interest  of  a  gentleman  as  tactful  and  persuasive  as 
his  Grace.  Caroline  was  now  enjoying  her  vacation 
immensely;  and,  even  more  than  the  vacation,  she  en- 
joyed the  romantic  secret  which  the  Duke  had  con- 
fided to  her  care,  and  the  telephone  messages  from  his 
Grace  every  day,  and  the  really  "elegant"  meals,  as 
she  termed  them,  which  were  served  to  her  at  the 
hotel  in  Eleventh  Street. 

The  latest  wire  she  had  received  from  his  Grace  was 
a  bit  like  this: 

"Hello!" 

"Hello!     Yes,  this  is  Miss  Caroline." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  will  be  to-morrow  night  that  you 
will  be  sent  to  beg  the  lady  to  come  to  the  hospital  to 
see  the  gentleman.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

"Sacre"e!"  murmured  the  Duke.  "Now  we  shall 
see,  two  detectives  or  not,  who  will  win  ?  It  is  like 
the  romance  of  Louis  XV.  But,  diable!  Who  would 
not  turn  back  five  centuries  for  the  sake  of  millions 
and  so  adorable  a  prize  as  la  belle  Judith!  We  shall 
see."  His  Grace  really  soliloquized  aloud  just  as  peo- 
ple do  on  the  stage;  he  was,  in  fact,  melodramatic,  and 
enjoyed  his  own  grandiloquence. 

The  next  night  was  Wednesday.  While  Caroline 
was  reading  a  note  she  had  received  from  the  Duke, 
the  Faxons'  drawing-room  was  filling  up  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men  and  women.  Judith  was  there. 
Presently  Travers  came  in.  He  had  heard  her  name 
mentioned  one  evening  when  he  had  called,  and  the 
fact  is  he  risked  going  on  this  particular  Wednesday 
in  the  vague  hope  that  she  might  be  there. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  the  episode  with  the 
176 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

Duke  at  her  own  home,  for  she  had  asked  leave  of 
absence  from  the  office  for  a  few  days.  He  could 
not  'phone  to  her,  as  there  was  no  wire  in  her  house. 
He  had  contented  or  discontented  himself  with  writ- 
ing her  each  of  the  five  days,  and  had  not  ventured  to 
go  to  her,  because  she  met  all  his  overtures  of  that 
nature  with  silence.  He  came  up  to  her  at  the  Faxons'. 
Dorothy  touched  his  arm  and  said,  "I  want  to  pre- 
sent you — we  don't  introduce  people,  as  a  rule,  but 
this  is  an  exception.  Miss  Judith  Harriman  " — the 
individual-life-family  and  most  of  their  familiars  al- 
ways used  any  married  woman's  unmarried  name — "is 
an  exception  to  all  rules." 

"I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Harriman 
before,"  he  observed,  with  a  smile,  as  he  stood  in  front 
of  her,  while  Dorothy  went  off  to  greet  some  new- 
comers. Travers  had  never  seen  her  in  evening  dress 
before,  and  for  a  second  he  was  bewildered.  He  had 
never  even  pictured  her  to  his  imagination  in  this  sort 
of  gown,  and  the  revelation  of  her  exquisiteness — the 
white,  spotless  symmetry  of  her  throat,  neck,  and  arms, 
beside  the  dull  black  of  her  gown,  amazed  and  thrilled 
him. 

"You  might  sit  down,"  she  said,  making  room  for 
him  on  the  sofa  in  the  bay-window. 

"No,"  he  answered.     "No,  I  could  not." 

"Why?"  She  smiled,  but  as  she  looked  up  at  him 
she  became  suddenly  serious;  she  had  not  seen  such 
a  look  on  any  man's  face  before  in  her  life. 

"Oh,"  he  whispered,  bending  over  her,  "I  would 
not  dare  just  now,  just  yet,  to  sit  beside  you.  You 
are  in  a  shrine.  You  are  a  saint.  You  are  only 
within  reach  of  my  eyes  and  my  hope.  I  will  stand 

177 


THE  UNDEFILED 

here  and  worship  you."  His  eyes  drank  deep  of  her 
beauty. 

She  laughed. 

"I  have  not  seen  you  in  five  days,"  he  added,  after 
a  few  moments — "at  least,  not  face  to  face." 

"Have  you  seen  me  any  other  way?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  a  glimpse  near  the  window,  a  hint  of  your 
shadow  against  the  curtain." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried,  in  surprise. 

"That  I  pass  your  house  two  or  three  times  every 
day,  and  when  I  see  my  lady's  figure  or  her  shadow  I 
take  off  my  hat  to  her,  that's  all." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face.  "I  am  coming  down  to 
work  again  to-morrow." 

"You  are  never  coming  down  to  work  any  more." 

"Ah,  yes;  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying." 

A  little  stir  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  made  them 
both  glance  that  way.  Conningsby  was  coming  in. 
Beatrice  Bond,  Judith  saw  in  an  instant,  had  arrived 
only  a  moment  in  advance  of  him,  and  a  flashing  look 
of  mutuality  passed  between  them  as  the  handsome 
and  popular  author  and  lecturer  was  making  his  com- 
pliments to  the  hostess  and  her  daughters. 

Travers  turned  back  to  Judith.  "That  is  Sidney 
Conningsby,  the  poet,  novelist,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"Yes,  it  is." 

Something  in  her  look  caused  him  to  regard  her 
more  closely  as  she  smiled. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  met  him.  although  I  rather  fancy  he  will 
forget  it  this  evening."  The  color  rose  violently  in  her 
cheeks,  her  bewildering  eyes  sparkled  with  a  danger- 

178 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

ous  light ;  one  could  see  her  heart  throbbing  through 
the  surpliced  folds  of  the  dull  black  gown.  Her  in- 
tellect was  on  edge ;  exhilaration  spoke  in  every  curve 
of  her  body ;  she  was  exultant  with  the  curiousness  of 
the  occasion. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  she  asked,  carelessly. 

"I  met  and  had  a  bit  of  chat  with  him  the  other 
night  at  the  club.  Clever  man." 

"Yes,"  she  asserted,  "very  clever."  And  then 
some  little  Oriental  imp,  it  must  have  been,  entered 
into  possession  of  her  for  a  moment,  for  she  added, 
with  an  uplift  of  her  tilted  eyes,  and  with  smiles  dan- 
cing on  her  scarlet  lips,  "He  has,  they  say,  too,  a 
clever  wife." 

"Ah!"  Bob  Travers  glanced  around.  He  saw 
Sidney  Gonningsby  just  reaching  Beatrice  Bond's 
side;  he  saw  the  peculiar  glance  of  mutual  under- 
standing, saw  the  dark,  handsome,  curly  head  bent 
above  the  sleek,  golden  one.  "That,  I  presume,"  indi- 
cating Beatrice,  "is  the  clever  wife?"  Judith  smiled. 
"Two  clever  people,"  he  went  on.  "By  clever  they 
mean  writing  people.  They  told  me  she  wrote." 
Judith  nodded.  "How  tired  they  must  get  of  each 
other!"  Bob  laughed. 

Judith  Harriman  laughed,  too.  She  had  the  most 
musical,  low  laugh  imaginable.  Travers  took  joy 
always  in  listening  to  it.  "Yes,"  she  remarked,  "I 
understand  that  Conningsby  and  his  wife  are  mortally 
tired  of  each  other — at  least,  he  is  of  her." 

Travers  started,  and  looked  sharply  at  her.  He  in- 
tercepted the  glance  that  she  and  Conningsby  at  that 
very  moment  were  exchanging.  "May  I  sit  down 
now  by  you?"  he  asked. 

179 


THE  UNDEF1LED 

"Have  I  come  out  of  the  shrine?"  she  said. 

"Yes.  I  may?"  She  moved  a  bit,  and  he  sat  be- 
side her.  "That  man  loves  you,"  he  said,  keenly. 

"Do  not  imagine  every  man  loves  the  women  you 
chance  to  admire." 

Just  then  Conningsby  walked  past  them.  He  bowed 
in  his  usual  courtly,  impressive  fashion. 

' '  Your  face  was  a  study  as  you  looked  at  him  when 
he  passed  by."  Bob  watched  her  with  delighted  eyes. 
"I  know  that  man  has  told  you  of  his  love." 

"He  is  married."  Surely  a  veritable  little  Chinese 
devil,  a  little  yellow,  laughing,  mischievous  devil, 
mocked  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

Travers  said:  "A  few  words  uttered  by  a  priest  or 
a  magistrate  over  two  people  have  never  in  the  history 
of  the  world  prevented  the  heart  of  one  or  the  other 
of  them  from  finding  out  its  mistakes.  That  man  has 
laid  his  best  at  your  feet." 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?"    She  spoke  lightly  but  defiantly. 

"Did  you  repulse,  or  permit  him  to  love  you,  may 
I  ask?" 

"Is  love  a  thing  one  permits?" 

"No,  but  its  expression  is."  Travers's  voice  was 
low  and  serious. 

"By  fto  means.  Not  with  certain  men.  It  is  a 
whirlwind  against  which  a  woman  may  struggle,  but 
in  vain." 

"Did  that  man,"  incredulously  regarding  Mr.  Con- 
ningsby as  he  obligingly  received  the  ovations  of  some 
young  women,  "love  in  that  way?" 

She  said  "Yes." 

"Did  you,  perhaps,  care  for  him?"  Bob  Travers 
spoke  very  slowly. 

1 80 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

"I  did,  or  I  thought  so." 

"You  are  speaking  the  truth?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am." 

"You — loved — him?"  in  consternation. 

"It  was  a  very  fair  imitation." 

"Ah!"  in  great  relief.  "And  now  I  perceive  you 
don't  speak  to  each  other." 

"We  do  sometimes,  not  always."  Both  she  and  the 
little  Chinese  devils  laughed  together  at  this  juncture. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"I  thought  men  did  not  like  to  hear  about  other 
men." 

"They  do  not.  I  do  not.  It  is  about  you  that  I 
wish  to  hear."  His  voice  was  very  earnest. 

"And  yet  when  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  my  past 
in  Europe  you  would  not  listen." 

"No,  I  would  not.  This  is  later,"  nodding  in  Con- 
ningsby's  direction,  "is  it  not?"  Judith  inclined  her 
head.  "It  seems  in  quarter-touch  with  you  at  the 
present  moment,  therefore  I  await  your  telling  me 
how  you  cared  for  him,  and  why  you  no  longer  care?" 
He  spoke  with  infinite  tenderness. 

"Did  I  say  'I  do  not  care?'"  she  asked,  mirthfully. 

"No,"  was  his  answer,  "you  only  looked  it,  and  if 
you  cared  for  any  man  on  earth  he  would  never  pass 
you  by." 

"Tastes  alter,"  she  sighed,  and  smiled. 

"Not  when  one  has  tasted  the  joy  of  you." 

She  said,  softly,  "Hush!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  will  be  heard." 

"I  want  every  one  to  know  that  I  love  you.  I 
would  shout  it  from  the  house-tops." 

181 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Ah,"  she  murmured,  "I  have  told  you  that  there 
is  a  reason  for  one's  being  still." 

"Reason?  But  I  love  you."  His  lips  framed  the 
words  just  as  Lillian  came  up  to  say  that  Ernest  was 
away  off  in  Canada,  and  how  they  had  expected  him 
back  for  this  evening,  and  many  more  vastly  interest- 
ing things.  By -and -by  it  was  time  to  go.  With  a 
strange  recklessness  Judith  Harriman  allowed  Bob 
Travers  to  take  her  home  in  his  auto.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  much  on  the  way.  The  chauffeur  was 
before  them.  As  the  auto  turned  back  from  Ninety- 
sixth  Street,  at  Eighth  Avenue,  Conningsby  and  Bea- 
trice Bond  got  out  of  a  surface-car.  They  did  not 
see  one  another.  Beatrice  went  up-stairs.  Connings- 
by went  into  his  flat.  Judith  stood  in  the  parlor,  hav- 
ing thrown  off  her  wrap.  She  had  laid  her  lips  on 
her  own  hand  where  Travers  had  held  it  in  his.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  the  flat  immediately, 
and  tell  Travers  that  she  was  married. 

When  Conningsby  entered  the  room  he  was  struck 
by  his  wife's  appearance;  her  singular,  irregular,  and 
captivating  beauty  had  appealed  to  his  fine  sense  of 
the  picturesque,  her  intellectuality  had  been  a  keen 
pleasure  and  a  recognized  inspiration  to  him.  If  she 
only  had  loved  him  as  Beatrice  did,  doubtless  he 
would  have  worshipped  her  to  the  end  of  the  last 
chapter. 

He  stared  at  her  a  second,  and  then  took  a  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  laconically. 

She  did  so,  and  made  a  motion  of  regret  and  half- 
way sympathy. 

"Turned  down  again,"  he  exclaimed. 
182 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

"Too  bad,"  she  answered. 

"Did  you  read  over  that  copy  of  it  I  left  with  you 
the  other  day?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?"  impatiently. 

"You  mean  what  do  I  think  of  it?" 

Her  husband  nodded. 

"That  those  five  chapters  need  rewriting,  and  that 
the  man  who  accepts  money  from  a  woman  whom  he 
doesn't  love  is  not  fit  for  the  hero  of  a  novel,  or  for 
anything  else." 

"Pshaw!  that's  what  these  last  infernal  publishers 
say.  The  woman  loves  him.  A  man  can  accept  any- 
thing from  a  woman  who  loves  him."  Conningsby's 
tone  was  final. 

Judith  said:  "Anything  but  money,  unless  he  loves 
her;  then  he  can  accept  even  money.  But  money 
taken  by  a  man  from  a  woman  can  only  be  repaid  in 
two  ways:  by  an  exact  equivalent  in  money  returned 
if  he  does  not  love  her,  or  by  his  love  for  her.  The 
man's  a  cad  who  accepts  it  in  any  other  way.  He 
can't  repay  it  in  any  coin  but  love  or  money  itself. 
Change  your  hero ;  make  him  rich  and  the  woman  who 
loves  him  poor." 

"Can't."  The  author  paced  the  floor  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  then  he  started  and  looked  at 
his  wife.  "You  do  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  can  do 
it.  Will  you?" 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  this  Saturday,"  she  said, 
slowly. 

"No.  Impossible!  What  for?  See  here, now,  what 
for  ?  You  can't  get  a  divorce  in  New  York — probably 
don't  want  one.  I  don't  want  one — couldn't  get  it 

183 


THE  UNDEFILED 

We  can't  move  to  Connecticut  at  present,  either  of  us. 
What  are  you  going  for?" 

"I  leave  on  Saturday." 

"Why  can't  you  stay  on?  I  really  need  you  now. 
This  Colon  novel  can  only  be  put  in  shape  by  you ;  I 
am  convinced  of  it.  You  are  comfortably  placed 
here;  no  one  interferes  with  you.  To  be  comfortable 
is  a  great  thing.  You  will  stay?" 

"I  will  go."  She  put  neither  scorn  nor  amusement 
into  her  tone ;  it  was  merely  plainly  unconvinced  and 
most  determined. 

"You  won't  fix  up  my  book  for  me?"  He  em- 
ployed his  most  winning  emphasis. 

Then  she  really  laughed  as  she  answered:  "No,  I 
really  think  you  must  do  it  yourself.  Hark!"  A 
carriage  stopped  abruptly  before  the  house,  and  al- 
most at  once  the  door -bell  rang.  It  was  after  one 
o'clock.  Conningsby  started  in  to  the  back  part  of 
the  flat. 

"I  don't  care  to  be  seen  here.  It  may  be  some 
person  of  importance.  It's  late,  though,  for  a  call." 
He  disappeared.  Judith  opened  the  door,  and  Caro- 
line, neatly  habited  as  a  trained  nurse,  darted  into  the 
room. 

"Oh,  Miss  Harriman!"  Caroline  had  supposed  Ju- 
dith married,  but  the  Duke,  who  thought  he  knew 
things,  had  posted  her  with  his  supposed  facts.  Caro- 
line had  found  these  facts  borne  out  by  the  name  on 
the  bell-plate,  and  even  had  she  not,  she  was  too  much 
interested  in  the  affairs  of  the  noble  gentleman  whom 
she  served  to  have  allowed  any  such  trifle  to  stand  in 
her  path. 

"Caroline!  I  remember  you,  of  course.  You  are  a 
184 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

trained  nurse  now?  Well,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Hurry!  Hurry!"  gasped  Caroline,  who  was  try- 
ing hard  to  imitate  the  Gallic  methods  of  her  pre- 
ceptor and  employer. 

"Oh,  what  are  you  talking  of?"  asked  Judith,  re- 
garding the  girl  with  curiosity. 

"Miss  Harriman,  come  quick.  He  is  dangerously 
wounded.  He  has  sent  me  in  a  carriage  for  you.  It 
happened  just  now — a  few  minutes  ago.  He — " 

"He?  Who?"  gasped  Judith  Harriman,  in  sudden 
abject  terror,  as  she  shook  the  ex-school-mistress  by 
the  shoulder. 

"Mr.  Travers,  Miss  Harriman." 

"I  will  go."  She  caught  up  her  fallen  wrap. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"At  St.  Luke's,  Miss  Harriman.  I'm  a  nurse  there. 
He's  calling  for  you  awfully  all  the  time." 

She  dashed  back  to  the  kitchen.  Conningsby  stood 
by  the  fire  making  a  Welsh  rarebit.  "I'm  going  out. 
A  friend  is  very  ill.  I'll  be  back  by-and-by." 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  and  she  and  Caroline  went  out 
of  the  house.  The  street  lamp  in  front  of  the  door 
had  been  put  out.  The  officer,  of  course,  was  at  the 
other  end  of  his  long  beat.  The  coach  lamps  were  not 
lighted.  Caroline  opened  the  carriage  door,  assisted 
Judith  in,  slammed  the  door,  the  horses  plunged  for- 
ward. Caroline  stood  a  second  as  if  meditating  which 
car  to  take  in  her  unaccustomed  New  York. 

The  tall  man  who  had  been  walking  up  and  down 
for  the  last  five  minutes  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  but  more  or  less  in  front  of  the  Conningsby 
flat  windows,  now  sprang  across  to  Caroline.  He  was 


THE   UNDEFILED 

sure  that  it  was  Judith  who  had  entered  that  coach. 
He  had  been  momentarily  dazed,  momentarily  deli- 
cate about  spying  into  or  watching  any  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  girl  he  loved.  But  this  feeling  left  him. 
A  strange  premonition  had  drawn  him  back  to  her  that 
night;  he  scented  danger  to  her,  and  hastened  to  her 
rescue. 

"Where  has  Miss  Harriman  gone?"  he  asked,  seiz- 
ing the  startled  Caroline  by  the  arm,  but  speaking 
very  gently. 

She  believed  herself  capable,  even  freed,  as  she  now 
was,  from  the  ducal  leash,  of  handling  this  wholly  un- 
looked-for movement  in  the  campaign.  She  an- 
swered tremblingly,  it  is  true,  but  courageously,  and 
as  the  Duke,  she  was  sure,  would  have  her. 

"She's  gone  to  St.  Luke's  Hospital  to  see  Mr. 
Travers.  He's  wounded,  and  sent  for — 

Bob  stood  to  hear  no  more.  He  left  Caroline  open- 
mouthed  at  the  curb,  made  one  spurt  for  Amsterdam 
Avenue,  saw  the  coach  hurrying  down,  whistled  to  a 
hansom  lazily  turning  away  from  the  saloon  at  the 
corner.  The  man  scrambled  his  vehicle  up,  Bob  met 
it  on  the  go,  jumped  in. 

"Overtake  that  coach — the  one  without  any  lamps 
down  there  three  blocks  away — and  I'll  give  you  a 
hundred  dollars,"  he  said  in  a  low,  tense  way.  And 
that  hansom  spun.  So  also  did  that  coach,  to  Fifty- 
ninth  Street,  to  Eighth  Avenue,  to  Twenty-fourth 
Street,  westward  to  Eleventh  Avenue,  down,  rattling, 
jolting  past  the  ferries,  and  slantwise  over  the  trolley- 
tracks  until  a  certain  pier  was  reached — a  pier  whereon 
lay  the  giant  shadow  of  the  great  liner  that  was  to 
sail  in  a  few  hours  for  the  other  side.  The  rubber 

186 


THE  CHASE  TO  THE  PIER 

tires  of  the  two-wheeler  made  no  noise,  the  rubber 
shoes  of  the  horse  made  no  noise  that  was  audible,  for 
just  then  a  couple  of  tugs  passing  each  other  on  the 
foggy,  cold  river,  saluted  with  becoming  and  pro- 
longed noise.  Therefore  the  hansom  reached  just  be- 
hind the  lampless  coach,  when  the  door  of  the  latter 
opened,  and  the  Duke  de  Montre"sor,  trailing  a  purple 
silk  cloak  on  his  arm,  half  lifted,  half  dragged  Judith 
Harriman  from  within. 

Bob  Travers  had  the  nerve  to  stand  still  on  his  cab- 
step  for  one  second  and  watch  out.  Her  mouth  was 
gagged  with  a  handkerchief,  and  his  Grace,  addressing 
the  coachman  now,  said:  "Help  me  with  the  poor 
young  lady,  my  sister.  As  I  told  you,  she  is  a  little 
demented." 

Then  Travers  whipped  out  the  pistol  he  always 
carried,  and  pounced.  He  seized  the  girl,  and  held 
the  weapon  in  front  of  the  Duke's  eyes,  close  up  to 
them.  "You  make  a  move  and  I'll  shoot  you  dead! — 
either  one  of  you,"  he  added,  covering  the  driver  with 
his  eye  as  well  as  his  weapon. 

Before  the  dock  watchman  or  any  one  else  could  reach 
him,  he  had  torn  the  handkerchief  from  her  mouth 
with  his  left  hand,  and  steadied  her.  His  own  cab- 
man came  up.  "  Get  into  the  hansom, 'I  he  said  to  her, 
"if  you  are  able.  Help  her,"  he  said  to  the  hansom 
driver,  who  obeyed  him.  "Now,"  he  added,  backing 
away  from  Montresor,  "get  aboard  as  quickly  as  you 
can.  I've  no  time  to  waste  on  you.  Go  on."  He 
kept  his  Grace  covered  while  he  walked  down  the 
pier,  and,  giving  a  word  to  the  now  aroused  guards, 
he  pushed  his  Grace  on  the  gang-plank  of  the  fastest 
ship  in  the  service. 

13  187 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Get  back  to  your  stable.  I've  got  your  number," 
Bob  remarked  to  the  coach-driver,  and  then  he  sprang 
into  the  hansom,  and  said  to  his  man,  "Ninety-sixth 
Street,  the  fifth  house  from  the  corner  of  the  ave- 
nue." They  started.  He  looked  at  her,  drew  her  to 
him,  stroked  her  fallen  hair,  her  little  hands  and  feet, 
her  arms  and  brow  and  cheeks  and  temples,  murmur- 
ing every  fond,  delicious  word  he  knew.  She  was 
quiet,  silent,  passive.  She  was  minded  to  tell  him 
then  'about  her  being  married,  but  something  kept 
her  lips  closed.  She  feared  his  misunderstanding  her. 

As  they  neared  her  street  he  said:  "We  must  be 
married  right  away.  I  will  run  no  more  risks.  I  am 
not  sure  of  you.  I  must  have  you  under  my  eyes  all 
the  time,  day  and  night,  week  in,  week'  out,  year  in, 
year  out,  forever.  Yes?  You  will?" 

"Oh  no,  no,  no,"  she  whispered,  shamedly.  But  he 
only  laughed  a  little,  confident  that  her  passive  resist- 
ance meant  surrender  at  last. 

Where  were  the  two  smart  detectives  whom  Travers 
had  employed  to  watch  over  his  Grace  all  this  time? 
Sitting  comfortably  in  a  fashionable  hotel,  looking 
around  at  staircases  and  elevators,  because  they  had 
seen  the  Duke  go  up  to  his  room  after  dining  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  they  were  positive  he  had  not  come  down. 
To  be  sure!  Of  course,  such  men  see  every  one.  They 
had  certainly  observed  a  tall,  slender  woman  in  an 
automobile  coat  of  rich  purple  silk,  with  cap,  curtain, 
thick  veil,  gloves,  all  to  match,  leaving  one  of  the 
elevators  at  about  ten,  go  out  by  the  ladies'  entrance, 
call  a  hotel  cab,  and  enter  it.  And  was  that  really 
his  Grace  the  Duke  de  Montre"sor  ? 


XV 

THE    HOUSE    IN    THE    BRONX 

.  CONNINGSBY  left  Mr.  Conningsby  and 
went  to  a  boarding-house  on  the  lower  West 
Side.  Boarding-houses  are  fearful  places,  and  this 
one  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The  room  she  had 
taken  was  a  large  back  one  on  the  second  floor,  the 
sun  shone  in  it,  and  the  outlook  over  the  neighbor- 
ing yards  was  not  bad.  She  did  not  tell  Travers  of 
her  change  of  address.  She  persisted  in  going  down 
to  his  office  every  day  and  fulfilling  her  duties.  He 
could  not  persuade  her  out  of  it.  The  only  alterna- 
tive she  had  was  to  keep  this  place,  or  look  for  an- 
other; so  he  had  to  content  himself  as  best  he  could, 
resolving,  meantime,  that  he  would  find  a  way  to  put 
a  stop  to  the  whole  thing  in  a  very  short  time.  Al- 
though she  eluded  him  daily,  and  contrived  not  to 
havd^him  alone  with  her  at  all,  he  felt  sure  that  he 
could  gain  her  over  to  his  will  by  those  quiet,  direct 
methods  which  are  the  prerogatives  of  very  strong, 
straightforward,  self-reliant  men. 

Travers  had  recently  invested  in  quite  a  parcel  of 
property  up  in  the  Bronx,  much  of  it  woodland,  but 
already  an  avenue  had  been  cut  through,  and,  owing 
to  the  beauty  of  the  trees,  it  had  become  a  great 
pleasure  thoroughfare.  On  this  property  stood  two 

189 


THE  UNDEFILED 

houses,  one  a  farmer's,  of  little  account,  the  other 
quite  a  mansion  in  semi-colonial  style,  in  fair  order, 
and,  while  situated  directly  on  the  newly  cut  avenue, 
it  still  preserved  the  rural  surroundings  of  wide 
meadows  on  each  side,  a  winding  arm  of  the  Bronx 
River  at  the  left,  and  thick  groves  of  cedars  and  elms 
at  the  rear.  The  place  pleased  him.  It  was  remote 
from  the  haunts  of  men.  The  pleasure-drivers,  it  is 
true,  would  glance  at  and  admire  it,  but  owing  to  a 
curve  in  the  new  avenue  it  was  rather  lonesome  just 
there  and  forlorn  looking.  The  hedges  had  grown 
high,  and  the  spot  was  unkempt.  He  left  the  grounds 
quite  as  they  were.  It  suited  his  sense  of  apartness 
and  sanctity  for  all  things  appertaining  to  her,  to  be  a 
little  secreted  from  the  world's  eye,  unsuspected,  un- 
suggested,  as  it  were.  But  the  house  itself  was  soon 
richly  furnished  from  top  to  bottom,  and  equipped  in 
every  way  as  to  linen,  silver,  hangings,  ornaments, 
rugs,  for  as  dainty  a  mistress  even  as  his  lady,  he 
knew,  would  be.  When  everything  was  about  ready 
and  in  order  he  took  a  run  out  to  Fairfield  to  see  Buck 
Grant. 

"Well,"  the  man  from  the  West  said,  heartily,  "but 
I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  Travers." 

Caroline,  who  was  taking  her  dinner  at  the  other 
table  of  the  Gray  Fox  Inn,  looked  up  wildly  as  she 
heard  the  name.  Bob  caught  her  sudden  glance,  and 
returned  it  with  a  slow  smile  and  a  bow. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  asked  of  the  clergyman. 

"The  school-mistress,"  was  the  reply. 

"Urn." 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Fine,  healthy  looking  girl."  Travers 
190 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 

was  not  the  man  to  give  away  the  secrets  of  any 
woman. 

"It's  good  to  see  you,  Bob,"  Grant  said,  eying  his 
friend  over  approvingly.  "You  look  quite  some 
younger.  What  is  it,  eh?"  He  turned  even  sharper 
eyes  on  his  visitor.  Travers  merely  smiled.  "  Haven't 
seen  you  since  the  day  we  had  the  baby  out  in  the 
Park,  have  I  ?" 

"  No,"  Travers  assented.  "  By-the-way,  how  is  that 
baby?" 

"Dead,"  Buck  said,  looking  down. 

"Oh,'?  with  a  falling  inflection. 

"Best  thing  that  could  have  happened,  I  reckon. 
Don't  know,  for  sure;  she  said  nothing.  But  when  a 
father  and  a  mother  don't  care  for  each  other,  what 
sort  of  a  future  can  their  child  have,  eh  ?  Come,  now, 
it's  up  to  you  to  tell  me  just  that!  I've  pondered  on 
it  a  good  bit,  wanting,  of  course,  to  preach  the  con- 
ventional ticket  to  my  flock,  but  hang  me  if  I  can! 
A  child  doesn't  bring  folks  together  who  can't  agree 
without  it.  And  it's  just  about  on  the  calendar  with 
other  crimes,  in  my  opinion,  to  launch  the  helpless 
little  creatures  on  the  sort  of  a  career  they're  bound 
for  when  the  parents  haven't  love  to  steer  them,  eh  ?" 

"Give  it  up,"  said  Travers.  "Don't  know.  Like 
many  unorthodox  statements,  I  reckon,  yours  is  the 
truth."  He  was  indifferent,  far  off  from  the  subject. 
Yet,  as  is  not  infrequently  the  case,  it  was  a  part  of 
his  own  vitality  which  Buck  had  in  mind.  It  was 
Judith,  and  Judith's  child. 

"Hello!"  cried  the  clergyman,  and  Travers  started. 
"Come  back!  You're  'way  off,  and  I  want  you  here." 
He  laughed  at  the  startled  eyes  of  his  old  friend. 

191     ' 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"I  am  here,"  Travers  exclaimed. 

Buck  Grant  looked  at  him.  "Tell  me  all  about  it, 
Bob,"  he  said,  lowering  his  tone. 

"Found  her,"  responded  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes. 

"Who?" 

"The  girl  in  Languedoc." 

"Not  really?" 

"Yes." 

"  Shake."  The  two  big  hands  met  in  warmest  grasp. 
"Ton  my  soul!  Why,  it's  like  a  book!  You've  met 
the  real  girl  herself? — the  girl  in  France?  Not  some 
second  and  revised  edition?"  wonderingly. 

"No,  no.     I've  met  her." 

"Is  she — the  right  one?" 

"Yes."      . 

"Good." 

"Have  you  told  her — -asked  her,  I  mean?" 

"Yes." 

"Holy  smoke!  It's  strange.  Now,  that  sort  of 
thing  doesn't  happen  once  in  a  century.  That's  ab- 
solute romance."  He  spoke,  musingly,  with  the  ap- 
preciation of  a  connoisseur.  "And  she  accepts  you?" 

"She's  got  to." 

"Oh!" 

"Came  out  here  to  ask  you  to  marry  us  next  Thurs- 
day." 

"So  soon?     Done!     Where?" 

"At  my  house.  Well,  it  '11  be  her  house  when  you 
do  it;  a  shanty  I've  bought  in  the  Bronx.  There's 
the  address" — he  pushed  a  scrap  of  paper  over  to  the 
clergyman — "and  the  directions  how  to  get  there  after 
you  leave  the  train  at  Pelham.  I'll  have  a  carriage 
to  meet  you,  though." 

192 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 

"What  time  on  Thursday?" 

"Oh,  'round  about  five  or  six  o'clock." 

The  clergyman  looked  up,  puzzled. 

"We're  not  particular.  She  doesn't  know  she's  go- 
ing to  be  married  then  at  all.  There  will  be  no  one 
there  but — us" — his  voice  fell — "and  you — and,"  he 
raised  his  right  hand  with  its  glass  of  wine,  took  a  long 
drink,  and  added,  "the  Supreme." 

Buck  Grant  nodded.  "That's  plumb  right,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause.  "But  we  must  have  witnesses." 

"Servants,"  ejaculated  Travers.     "Can  you  come?" 

"Sure." 

"Won't  disappoint  me?" 

"Able  to  breathe,  I'll  be  on  deck." 

"I  know  you'll  like — my  girl."  He  spoke  in  a 
hushed  way. 

"Certain." 

"She'll  like  you." 

Buck  Grant  smiled. 

"How  about  the  little  Faxon  girl?"  Travers  added, 
presently. 

"Don't.  No,  no,  sir-ee.  I  tell  you,  a  nice  girl's  too 
nice  a  lot  to  fool  and  put  up  a  job  on  like  that." 

"How?" 

"Marrying  her  when  your  heart's  full  of  some  one 
else.  It's  a  mean  trick,  that  is,  I  take  it.  Lots  of 
fellows  call  it  honor,  this  making  a  girl  your  wife  be- 
cause she  happens  to  take  a  shine  to  you;  but  it's  dis- 
honor, that's  what  it  is.  She's  better  off  single  than 
hooked  fast  to  a  man  who  doesn't  love  her.  Eh,  right 
or  wrong,  pal?" 

"Right  every  time.  Only  I  thought,  perhaps,  the 
old  wound  might  have  healed." 

193 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"If  your  girl  was  to  go  back  on  you  right  now,  or  if 
she'd  never  cared  for  you,  would  you  be  getting  your- 
self married  to  some  one  else  merely  because  she 
liked  you?" 

"No,"  was  the  quiet,  quick  response. 

"Well,  then,  there  you  are." 

*  Presently  Bob  Travers  tooled  back  to  town.  He 
stopped  on  the  way  for  a  look  over  the  house  in  the 
Bronx,  and  found  everything  fit  and  in  its  place.  He 
had  even,  in  the  luxury  of  his  fancy  and  his  craving, 
bought  three  or  four  Chinese  dressing-gowns  of  richest 
silk,  patterned  in  fans  and  birds  and  dragons,  of  gor- 
geous hues,  lined  in  softest  satins  of  pink  and  blue  and 
white,  and  hung  them  up  with  his  own  hands  in  the 
white  wardrobe  of  her  room.  Chinese  gowns  because 
of  the  odd  little  Oriental  tilt  to  her  wonderful  eyes. 

The  next  day  was  the  very  one  on  which  Judith  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  tell  Travers  all  there  was  to  tell 
about  herself.  First  she  wrote  it  in  a  few  simple 
words,  and  laid  it  on  his  desk,  to  be  found  just  as 
soon  as  he  reached  the  office.  He  was  late.  She 
changed  her  mind,  took  back  the  note  and  destroyed 
it.  When  he  came  in  finally,  and  spoke  to  her,  it  was 
he,  as  always,  who  took  the  initiative.  He  said: 

"  I  want  you  to  take  a  little  turn  with  me  up  towards 
the  Bronx  on  Thursday." 

She  hesitated.  She  had  been  honest,  entirely 
honest,  in  her  decision  to  speak  to-day,  and  to  give 
up  her  place  to-day.  She  had  gone  far  towards  en- 
gaging another  position  in  a  publishing  house  for 
which  she  had  written  some  of  her  early,  successful 
plains  stories. 

"You  will  do  as  I  ask  you  to? — Thursday?" 
194 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 

She  sighed.  Why  not  ?  What  difference  would  one 
more  spin  make?  None.  He  looked  with  a  strained 
anxiety  at  her.  His  face  was  white.  He  instinctive- 
ly but  unconsciously  felt  the  struggle  within  her  soul. 

"Well,"  she  said,  finally,  "yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Then  the  red  blood  rushed  up  into  his  face,  and 
every  pulse  in  him  thanked  her  silently.  He  went 
over  to  his  own  desk,  and  she  resumed  her  work. 
When  there  was  a  chance  between  twelve  and  one 
o'clock  she  went  a  step  over  towards  him,  and  spoke. 

"Mr.  Travers,  one  moment,  please." 

He  sprang  up,  and  went  to  her.     "What  is  it?" 

"Thursday  will  be  my  last  day  here." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  buoyantly. 

She  was  too  self-absorbed  to  note  the  inflection 
much.  "I  have  secured  another  position.  It  is  best. 
You  will  agree  with  me,  will  you  not?" 

"Entirely." 

Then  she  glanced  up  at  him.     He  was  laughing. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  in  her  pain,  "don't  laugh."  Then 
realizing  what  she  had  said,  "I  mean,  I  am  in  ear- 
nest." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know,  I  know.  Let  it  all  go 
just  for  these  few  days,  until  after  our  drive  out  to  the 
Bronx,  won't  you?" 

She  was  glad  to  "let  it  all  go."  Yes,  that  was  it, 
glad.  She  dreaded  the  agony  of  the  parting,  the  giv- 
ing up,  the  ending  of  it  all,  and  yet  it  must  come. 
With  it,  no  doubt,  the  loss  of  his  esteem  and  his  re- 
spect. Well,  perhaps  that  would  make  it  easier. 
Everything  seemed  upside  down;  her  head  swam. 
Then  she  laughed  a  little,  and  remembered  that  life 
was  before  her,  and  had  to  be  lived,  that  she  must  be 

195 


THE  UNDEFILED 

brave,  and  she  must,  notwithstanding  that  little  tilt 
in  her  eyes,  be  entirely  frank. 

"Won't  you?"  he  repeated  under  his  breath,  but 
with  concentrated  appeal  and  great  tenderness  as  he 
laid  his  hand  over  hers. 

"Yes — just  once,"  she  answered,  forlornly.  And 
when  she  left  the  office  a  little  later  on  she  went  to 
see  the  publishers  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  signed  an 
agreement  with  them  to  begin  on  Friday  morning 
next  at  ten  o'clock. 

She  was  just  coming  out  of  the  lift  when  her  hus- 
band swung  almost  past  her,  among  a  lot  of  other 
people. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  off  his  hat.  Con- 
ningsby  liked  to  be  seen  with  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
when  she  was  tastefully  gowned,  as  Judith  was,  he 
liked  it  doubly.  Men  always  stared  at  Judith.  There 
was  a  quality  of  vividness  and  a  certain  splendor  about 
her  which  attracted  regard.  Even  women  keen  for 
beauty  or  the  unusual  always  stared  at  her,  on  the 
streets  or  in  the  cars. 

"Well!"  she  echoed,  noting  how  shabby  he  looked 
and  that  his  coat -collar  was  dusty.  Yet  he  was 
handsome,  very  handsome,  and  winsome  in  a  certain 
way,  a  tricky  winsomeness. 

"How  does  it  go?"  she  said,  recovering  herself  first. 

"Doesn't  go;  it  stays,"  he  laughed  grimly. 

"The  Isthmus  novel,  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  You  might  have  done  it  for  me."  He  spoke 
in  the  manner  of  a  petted  child,  a  manner  which  al- 
ways won  with  women,  coming,  as  it  did  in  his  case, 
from  the  beautiful  lips  of  an  attractive  big  man. 

She  regarded  him  carefully.  It  occurred  to  her  re- 
196 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 

motely  to  hand  him  some  money,  all  she  could  spare, 
but  the  idea  was,  after  all,  so  very  remote  from  her, 
however  near  it  may  have  been  to  him,  that  it  had  no 
result  in  kind.  She  said,  in  a  compassionate  way:  "I 
will  do  it  for  you."  He  started  joyfully.  "I  may  be 
a  bit  slow  with  it.  I  will  have  to  do  it  at  night. 
You  can  send  it  here,  where  I  shall  be  next  week." 
She  named  the  publishers. 

"Now  that  is  big,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  gratified, 
patronizing  way.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you  do  some- 
thing big." 

"Are  you?"  she  remarked,  in  an  expressionless  tone. 
"Good-morning."  She  went  out;  he  went  in  for  a 
few  minutes ;  and  when  he  came  down  from  his  call  on 
the  editor  he  sauntered  majestically  along  the  avenue 
in  the  sunshine,  but  he  felt  like  a  serf.  He  stuck 
his  right  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  wad  of 
bills.  This  was  the  money  his  wife  had  paid  him  for 
her  board.  He  smiled.  He  was  not  a  fool,  or  at  all 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  if  he  had  been  altogether  a 
man  he  would  have  long  since  handed  the  money  back 
to  her,  granting  that  he  had  ever  soiled  his  hands 
with  its  touch.  Conningsby  knew  this  as  well  as  Bob 
Travers  would  have  known  it,  with  as  keen,  delicate, 
and  aesthetic  a  sense.  But  instead  of  doing  what  he 
should  have,  he  spent  Judith's  money,  partly  on  some 
wearing  apparel  for  himself,  partly  otherwise.  He 
carried  his  parcels  —  they  were  small  ones  —  home 
himself.  When  he  reached  his  flat,  which  he  could 
not  give  up  until  the  first  of  the  next  month,  he 
passed  by  the  door  and  went  up.  Beatrice  had  seen 
him  coming,  and  she  stood  in  the  narrow  hall  await- 
ing him.  Luncheon  was  ready.  Conningsby  now  took 

197 


THE  UNDEFILED 

his  meals  with  Beatrice's  aunt.     It  suited  him,  and 
assisted  the  worthy  and  hard-worked  housewife. 

"Will  you  come  right  in  to  luncheon?  Aunt  Mary 
is  out,  but  I  have  made  something  that  you  like,  for 
Joanna  was  busy  with  her  washing." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'm  hungry,  and  it's  a  bit  frosty 
out.  Ah!"  She  took  his  hat  and  coat,  and  hung 
them  up,  and  they  went  into  the  little  dining-room 
together.  They  heard  Joanna  pounding  around  on 
the  roof  over  their  heads,  hanging  up  her  clothes  and 
gossiping  with  her  acquaintances.  "Ah,  this  is  com- 
fortable." He  sat  down  in  the  sunniest  seat,  which 
she  arranged  for  him,  and  while  she  served  him  he  ate 
of  the  dishes  he  liked. 

"What  a  famous  cook  you  are!  This  is  delicious!" 
He  tasted  with  the  air  of  an  epicure.  The  whole  situ- 
ation was  delightful  to  him — the  beautiful  woman 
waiting  upon  him,  the  warmth,  the  viands;  and  at 
the  very  moment,  too,  he  recalled  the  vast  difference 
of  Judith's  methods,  recognized  her  infinite  superiority 
of  delicacy,  womanliness,  pride,  self-respect.  But  he 
was  "comfortable." 

"Beatrice,  come  here;  sit  down  beside  me.  You 
have  eaten  nothing  yourself,"  Conningsby  finally  ex- 
claimed, as  he  drained  his  coffee-cup. 

She  said:  "I  ate  before  you  came  in.  I  don't  like 
to  eat  when  you  look  at  me.  You  once  said  I  did  not 
eat  well." 

He  laughed,  and  drew  a  small  box  from  his  pocket. 
"Open  it,"  he  said,  and  she  obeyed.  A  very  pretty 
ring  shone  on  the  velvet  cushion. 

"Oh!"  Her  light  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure,  her 
voice  was  the  voice  of  delight. 

198 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  BRONX 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  it  is  beautiful.     Yes — yes.     Is  it  for  me?" 

"Certainly."  Conningsby  had  bought  it  with  the 
larger  part  of  Judith's  money.  He  put  it  on  Bea- 
trice's finger,  and  kissed  it  there.  She  sat  gazing  at 
him.  There  was  rapture  on  her  face,  adoration,  the 
kind  of  worship  that  is  pitiable  from  woman  to  man. 
He  looked  over  into  the  long  mirror  beside  the  mantel, 
and  saw  her  face  and  his  own.  The  vision  pleased 
and  excited  him.  He  seemed  to  see  it  more  con- 
cretely than  ever  before  in  this  reflected  way.  He 
would  hesitate  no  longer.  He  recollected  that  the 
world  had  not  treated  him  fairly,  that  he  was  up 
against  it,  down  on  his  luck;  but  here  was  compensa- 
tion of  a  certain  kind,  and  he  would  take  it.  "You 
are  needing  a  holiday.  "  Will  you  come  with  me?"  he 
whispered  to  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  under  her  breath. 

"For  a  week?" 

"Yes."     She  bent  her  head  upon  his  knee. 

"We  will  go  on  Thursday." 

"Yes." 

"In  the  afternoon,  at  four.  We  will  drive  up  into 
Westchester.  I  know  a  dear  little  Inn  there.  You 
will  come?" 

"Yes,"  she  sighed,  while  he  smiled  and  held  her  fast. 


XVI 

CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

THURSDAY  proved  to  be  a  perfect  day.  At 
three  o'clock,  Travers,  who  had  watched  the  time 
with  undisguised  impatience  ever  since  nine,  got  up 
from  his  desk,  took  his  hat  and  coat,  handed  hers  to 
Judith,  and  said:  "Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  leave 
here." 

"  Now!"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  midst  of  a  pile  of  letters. 
"  Surely  not  until  I  have  finished  these,  Mr.  Travers  ?" 

"Now,"  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  insistent  way.  Bob 
had  almost  as  charming  a  voice  as  Conningsby,  and 
one  was  never  tempted  to  suspect  the  genuineness  of 
its  quality  as  one  occasionally  did  with  the  other  man's. 

"Well."  She  took  her  hat  and  coat  from  him,  and 
put  them  on.  There  was  a  certain  something  of  re- 
strained power  and  purpose  about  him  which  prevailed 
with  her  and  at  the  same  time  caused  her  to  tremble. 
They  went  down  together  and  got  into  the  auto. 
The  chauffeur  was  guiding.  Neither  spoke  much. 
Now  and  then  Travers  looked  down  at  her,  compel- 
ling her  to  raise  her  eyes  to  meet  his.  His  eyes  were 
full  of  a  strange,  subdued  tenderness,  a  repression  of 
all,  probably,  that  he  most  wished  to  express.  They 
drove  through  the  Park.  When  they  came  near  the 
Museum  his  hand  closed  a  bit  over  hers,  and  he  said; 

200 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"Our  Park,  my  girl,  eh?" 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  At  noth  Street  they 
crossed  over  to  Riverside,  and  they  both  watched 
the  great  wreathing  columns  of  black  smoke  from 
the  starch  factories  on  the  other  bank  as  they  were 
beaten  northward  by  the  wind;  watched  the  big 
billowing  white  clouds  fleeing  northward,  too;  the 
sails  down  yonder  on  the  blue  water,  the  steamboats 
and  the  tugs  and  the  smacks,  but  quite  in  silence. 
Judith  resolved  that  she  would  now  tell  Travers.  She 
began:  "I  want  to  tell  you — " 

"  No!"  he  cried,  interrupting  her,  for  he  scented  some- 
thing, some  little  trivial  thing,  he  fancied,  but  out  of 
harmony  with  what  he  had  to  tell  her.  "  Don't  tell 
me  anything.  Let  me  talk  to  you  and  tell  you  some- 
thing." 

"You  always  get  your  own  way,"  she  said,  "don't 
you?" 

"I  always  try  for  it,"  he  answered,  "but  generally 
I  shall  like  your  way  best  after  to-day,  after  this 
present  hour." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  puzzled. 

"I've  lately  bought  property  up  in  the  Bronx." 
He  spoke  quickly.  They  had  crossed  the  bridge,  and 
were  making  speed  towards  their  goal.  "I've  bought 
a  house  up  there.  I'm  taking  you  to  look  at  it.  It's 
not  much  of  a  piece  of  architecture,  but  it's  rather 
homelike  and  pretty.  There's  a  bit  of  garden  at  the 
rear,  although  it  faces  almost  directly  on  the  new 
Travers  Avenue,  as  they've  called  it." 

"Yes,"  she  responded. 

"Here  we  are."  The  auto  pulled  up  before  the 
house.  It  lay  quite  in  the  depths  of  the  afternoon 

201 


THE  UNDEFILED 

shadows.  It  seemed  sequestered,  not  gloomy,  because 
lights  shone  at  all  the  windows,  and  those  in  the  tower 
end  were  catching  the  last  red  rays  of  a  setting  sun. 
Travers  jumped  to  the  pavement  and  held  out  his  arms. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  get  out  ?"  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure.  I  have  servants  here,  well- 
trained  ones.  I  want  to  show  you  all  through  the 
place  from  cellar  to  garret." 

"It  looks  quite  eerie,"  she  hesitated. 

"No,"  he  cried,  adding,  as  the  buzz  of  the  electric 
sounded  at  the  corner:  "There  is  the  trolley  in  a 
stone's  throw.  Nothing  eerie  here,  my  lady."  He  was 
helping  her  to  alight.  He  then  ran  up  the  broad,  low 
flight  of  steps  like  a  boy.  The  front-door  stood  open 
at  once,  but  no  one  was  visible.  He  came  down 
again,  dismissed  the  chauffeur  with  a  glance,  and  took 
her  up  and  into  the  house  and  closed  the  door.  No 
one  was  to  be  seen.  There  was  not  a  sound,  save 
the  ticking  of  a  tall  clock  on  the  landing  of  the  cen- 
tral staircase.  They  stood  together  on  the  threshold. 
"Won't  you  look  about  a  bit?" 

She  did.  Standing  there  in  the  centre  of  the  big, 
square  hall,  with  its  twisting  stairs,  she  could  see  the 
large  drawing-room  at  the  right  superbly  furnished 
and  hung,  the  mantel  banked  with  roses,  the  library 
back  of  it,  all  in  dull  browns  and  green;  at  the  left  a 
music-room  in  pink  and  silver,  and  beyond  it  a  dining- 
room  in  warm  crimsons  and  mahogany.  There  were 
roses  everywhere,  in  vases,  screens,  baskets.  Travers 
led  her  into  the  drawing-room.  In  front  of  a  long 
mirror  in  the  arch  there  hung  a  bell  of  roses  with  a 
tongue  of  lilies.  He  led  her  to  it;  she  was  trembling 
and  terrified,  as  they  stood  beneath  it  alone. 

202 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"We  are  going  to  be  married  to  each  other  here, 
girl,  in  a  little  while — half  an  hour  or  so.  A  friend  of 
mine,  a  clergyman,  is  coming  to  marry  us.  You  are 
never  to  leave  me  any  more.  I  will  'phone  for  your 
trunks  and  things.  Do  you  like  your  house,  dear 
heart?"  He  put  the  deed  to  it  in  her  cold  hands. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  in  an  agony  of  shame  of  herself 
and  of  pride  in  him.  "Oh!"  She  almost  slipped 
down  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "But  I  cannot.  I 
cannot — " 

A  fierce  jangle  of  the  electric  at  the  front  door,  a 
dull  pounding,  a  deep,  cursing  voice  outside,  the  clatter 
©f  hoofs  and  wheels,  a  woman's  scream,  all  these  at 
once,  and  a  man  crying,  "Help!  for  God's  sake,  help!" 
broke  in  upon  Travers  and  Judith.  Something,  some 
hint  of  a  memory  that  was  familiar  in  one  of  the  two 
voices  without,  caused  her  to  spring  aside,  to  run  out 
in  the  hall,  and,  with  the  instinct  of  escape,  to  rush  up 
the  stairs  and  pause,  hidden  by  the  crimson  draperies 
on  the  landing  where  the  tall  clock  ticked. 

Travers,  waving  back  a  man-servant  who  tentative- 
ly showed  for  a  second  only,  went  to  the  door  himself 
and  opened  it.  A  tall  man,  whose  face  was  indistin- 
guishable from  blood  pouring  from  an  ugly  wound  in 
his  forehead,  stood  before  him,  his  great  eyes  staring. 

"Driving  out,"  he  stammered — "a  drunken  coach- 
man— just  here  at  your  corner — collision  with  the 
trolley  almost — "  Travers  steadied  him  and  drew 
him  in  a  pace.  "My — my  wife!"  he  faltered.  "If 
you  could,  would  you  give  us  a  bit  of  shelter  until  I 
can  set  things  straight." 

"My  dear  sir!"  Travers  exclaimed,  placing  the  man 
on  the  big  divan  and  dashing  out  into  the  street. 
14  203 


THE  UNDEFILED 

He  returned  in  a  moment,  bearing  the  woman  in  his 
arms. 

Judith  stood  on  the  landing.  She  was  looking  at 
all  this,  overhearing  it  in  bewilderment.  She  was 
shivering  from  head  to  foot,  but  in  a  second  she  was 
calmer.  She  leaned  over  the  railing  and  whispered  to 
Travers. 

"Take  her  into  the  library.     I  will  come." 

He  took  the  woman  in,  and  laid  her  down  on  a 
couch.  She  seemed  uninjured,  but  in  a  dead  faint. 
The  man  was  now  upon  his  feet. 

"Is  she  dead?"  he  cried,  staggering  to  the  library 
door. 

"No,  no,  no;  only  swooned.  You  are  in  the  worse 
plight  of  the  two." 

"But  I  must  go  to  her."  He  almost  fell  to  the 
floor.  Travers  caught  him. 

"My — my  wife  will  go  to  her.  Have  no  fears." 
Travers  had  soaked  his  handkerchief  in  a  vase  of 
water,  and  now  wiped  the  man's  face  free  of  blood 
with  it. 

He  could  not  have  told  why  he  did  not  telephone 
at  once  for  a  surgeon  or  call  in  the  servants.  He  was 
quiet,  as  usual,  but  something  held  him  in  leash. 

"Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  Mr.  Conningsby!" 
The  knowledge  impressed  him  disagreeably. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  Conningsby."  A  shade  of  vanity 
echoed  in  the  tone. 

Then  Travers  glanced  up  to  where  Judith  was.  He 
knew  she  had  heard  all  he  said.  He  helped  the  wound- 
ed man  to  turn  so  that  his  glance  could  not  rest  on 
the  staircase.  He  went  up  to  Judith,  and  said: 

"You  see,  it's  Conningsby;  the  woman  is  Connings- 
204 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

by's  wife.  Won't  you  go  to  her  and  help  her?  I  will 
see  to  him."  All  the  time  he  was  speaking  he  was  re- 
membering that  Conningsby  had  loved  Judith,  and  that 
she  had  loved  him  with  that  "fair  imitation  "  of  love. 

She  had  heard  every  word  Travers  had  uttered  to 
her  husband. 

She  said,  "Yes,"  and  darted  down  the  stairs  and 
into  the  library.  She  closed  the  sliding  -  doors  be- 
tween it  and  the  drawing-room,  and  jarred  the  rose 
bell  so  that  it  swung,  and  all  the  lilies  fell  out  of  it  to 
the  floor.  She  knelt  down  by  Beatrice  Bond,  and 
took  her  vinaigrette,  and  bathed  her  lips  and  temples 
with  the  strong  essence.  She  felt  of  her  bones  and 
looked  at  her.  She  was  uninjured,  only  stunned. 
Presently  she  opened  her  eyes,  but  she  did  not  see 
Judith,  who  purposely  kept  herself  at  the  head  of  the 
couch. 

"What  place  is  this,  Sidney  ?"  Then  she  sobbed  and 
laughed,  and  reached  up  her  arms  for  comfort. 

Judith  stretched  out  her  hands  to  meet  Beatrice's 
and  be  grasped  by  them. 

"These  are  not  your  hands,  Sidney.  Oh!"  she 
screamed.  "I  remember:  we  were  driving,  we  were 
run  away  with,  pitched  out  of  the  hansom  by  the  trol- 
ley. Sidney!  Is  he  dead?  Dead!  Oh,  God!"  She 
flung  Judith's  hands  away  from  her,  and  burst  into  a 
paroxysm  of  weeping. 

Judith  spoke  then,  very  softly.  There  was  a  strange, 
miraculous  compassion  in  her  heart. 

"  No,  he  is  not  dead,  only  hurt.  He  will  be  all  right 
very  soon.  You  must  be  quiet  for  his  sake,  and  not 
let  him  hear  you  scream  or  sob." 

"Who  are  you?"  Beatrice  sat  up  and  turned  upon 
205 


THE  UNDEFILED 

the  girl  who  stood  there,  like  an  adder  who  would  spring 
and  bite. 

"I  am  Judith,"  she  said,  gently. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  the  other  demanded, 
fiercely. 

The  hot  blood  flooded  her  face  as  she  replied,  "I 
am  going  to  try  and  help  you." 

"I  don't  want  your  help!"  Beatrice  Bond  spoke 
angrily.  "Go  away  from  me!"  She  got  on  her  feet. 
"You  must  hate  me;  you  have  cause.  But  I  do  not 
care."  She  was  beside  herself  almost,  and  her  voice 
rose.  "We  were  going  away  together.  Yes,  I  loved 
him  enough  for  that.  An  accident  can't  stop  us ;  you 
can't  help  me.  Where  is  he?"  She  said  it  arbitrarily, 
and  moved  quickly  towards  the  door  which  gave  into 
the  hall,  as  the  one  at  the  right  of  the  bay-window, 
where  the  couch  stood,  opened  upon  a  little  balcony 
and  to  the  street. 

Judith  put  herself  quickly  between  this  first  door 
and  Beatrice.  "You  can't  go  to  him,"  she  said,  quietly. 

The  big,  blond-haired  girl  looked  her  over  with  in- 
finite scorn.  "Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  jealous  at 
last,  are  you?" 

Judith's  face  remained  without  expression.  "As 
you  please,"  she  spoke  in  a  low  tone. 

"Get  out  of  my  way!"  Beatrice  cried.  "I  will  go 
to  him.  He  wants  me.  Move  away.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  I  hear,  but  I  sha'n't  stir,  and" — her  intona- 
tion was  concentrated  and  firm — "you  shall  not  qp  to 
him." 

"Sha'n't  I ?"  Beatrice  put  up  her  arm  to  force  the 
way.  Judith  caught  it  in  the  vise  of  her  small,  strong 
hand. 

206 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"No,"  she  answered,  "you  sha'n't.  You  may  think 
of  me  as  you  see  fit.  I  am  indifferent  about  that, 
but  there  is  some  one  else  you've  got  to  think  of 
now,  this  moment."  The  words  came  with  earnest 
rapidity. 

"Who's  that?"  the  other  girl  asked,  defiantly. 

"Your  mother."  Judith  uttered  this  with  infinite 
gentleness. 

"Oh,  oh!"  Beatrice  cried  in  pain.  "Hush,  hush!" 
She  was  sullen,  tearless. 

"No,  I'll  not  hush.  Think  about  her,  and  what 
she  would  say  were  she  here  to-day.  Your  mother 
was  good,  pure,  true.  You  have  often  told  me  about 
her.  What  were  you  going  to  do  with  her  daughter? 
What  were  you  going  to  do  with  yourself,  your  life, 
your  all?" 

"  I  love  him."  Beatrice  spoke  doggedly,  but  she  did 
not  offer  now  to  move. 

"No,  you  don't.  If  you  did  you'd  love  something 
else  better  than  you  do  him." 

"What?"     She  was  more  sullen,  but  motionless. 

"His  honor." 

Beatrice  stared  at  Judith.  "What  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"I'm  telling  you  that  when  your  honor  goes,  so 
does  his;  the  man  loses  just  as  much  as  the  woman. 
If  you  loved  him,  you'd  sooner  die  than  give  him 
anything  to  regret." 

"  Oh,"  Beatrice  shrieked,  in  a  smothered  way,  "you're 
cruel — clever  and  cruel." 

"Come,"  Judith  said;  "now  we  will  go  away  from 
here  together." 

"But  Sidney?" 

207 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Is  in  good  hands." 

"I  won't  stir." 

"Yes,  you  will."  She  took  Beatrice  Bond  by  the 
arm,  and  led  her  across  to  the  door  that  opened  out. 

"  Let  me  just  see  him,  speak  to  him  once  ?"  she  pleaded. 

"No,  you  must  come  with  me.  We  won't  talk  any 
more.  We'll  get  in  the  trolley-car  and  go  away  to- 
gether." They  were  at  the  now  opened  door. 

"No."  Beatrice  said  it  like  a  tigress,  and  turned 
to  go  back. 

"Yes."  Judith  said  it,  placing  her  strange,  Oriental 
eyes  on  the  other's  face.  "Come,"  and  Beatrice  went 
home  with  Conningsby's  wife. 

As  they  were  taking  the  car,  a  physician's  carriage 
pulled  up  hurriedly  before  the  house  in  the  Bronx, 
and  presently  the  medical  man  was  with  his  patient. 
The  bell  sounded  again  just  as  Travers  was  about  to 
go  over  into  the  library.  He  answered  it  himself,  too. 
Buck  Grant  stood  there  smiling.  Had  he  moved  two 
paces  farther  he  must  have  seen  Sidney  Conningsby 
lying  there.  He  didn't  have  the  chance  to  move  in. 

Travers  said: 

"Old  fellow,  no  marriage  to-day — at  least,  not  for 
an  hour  or  so.  An  accident  to  some  people  at  the 
corner,  and  they're  here  being  cared  for."  He  did 
not  know  precisely  why,  but  his  intuition  was  against 
admitting  Buck  Grant  to  his  house  just  then. 

"Can't  I  be  of  any  help?"  the  clergyman  said,  seri- 
ously, and  this  brought  Travers  to  a  realizing  sense  of 
the  stupidity  of  the  situation,  seeing  his  friend  stand- 
ing there  in  the  vestibule,  with  his  suit-case  hanging 
heavily  in  his  hand.  He  started,  took  the  grip  from 
him,  and  said: 

208 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"  I  don't  know ;  maybe  you  can.     Come  in ;  come  in." 

Buck  stepped  in  and  beheld  Conningsby.  Connings- 
by's  eyes  turned  towards  him;  he  was  watching  for 
Beatrice,  probably.  Conningsby  made  a  motion  of 
surprise,  which  the  surgeon  followed  with  his  glance. 

Buck  Grant  exclaimed: 

"Conningsby!" 

"Yes,"  Sidney  said,  trying  to  smile.  The  medical 
man  then  waved  them  off. 

Buck  and  Travers  went  and  stood  apart  in  the 
flower  -  decked  drawing-room.  They  trod  upon  the 
fallen  lilies. 

"That's  Conningsby,  the  writer,  you  know,"  Buck 
Grant  said.  Bob  nodded.  "Was  any  one  with  him 
when  the  accident  happened?" 

"His  wife,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"My  God!  I — "  Buck  checked  himself .  "Was  she 
hurt,  too?" 

"Stunned,  that's  all,  I  fancy.  She  is  in  here,  in 
the  library  with — some  one."  He  smiled,  and  Buck 
Grant  responded.  "Do  you  know  her,  too  —  Con- 
ningsby's  wife,  I  mean?"  Travers  asked  of  his  old 
friend. 

"Yes;  oh  yes." 

"Well,  then,  you  might  go  in  there,  and — er — 
Buck,  don't  say  anything  about  the  wedding  before 
Mrs.  Conningsby." 

"No,  of  course  not."  Travers  opened  the  door, 
and  Buck  Grant  walked  into  the  empty  library.  As 
Travers  was  making  to  follow  him,  his  hand  upon  the 
knob,  the  surgeon  called  imperatively  for  aid,  the 
door  slipped  closed,  and  Travers  sprang  to  Con- 
ningsby's  side.  The  injured  man  had  lost  conscious- 

209 


THE  UNDEFILED 

• 

ness.  The  surgeon  worked  over  him  with  his  assist- 
ant. Travers  held  his  head,  and  did  other  things  as 
required. 

"  Is  it  serious,  then  ?"  Travers  asked,  when  the  medi- 
cal man  drew  a  long  breath  and  paused. 

"Yes,  he  can  hardly  live  and  recover." 

"Oh!"  It  was  base  of  him;  he  knew  it  was  base, 
but  for  a  single  second  he  was  not  sorry  to  hear  the 
verdict.  He  always  seemed  to  be  recalling  that  Judith 
had  loved  this  man  in  a  certain  fashion. 

"It  may  be  a  matter  of  a  few  hours;  he  may  linger 
for  months.  I  can't  tell.  He  will  require  the  most 
patient  care  and  nursing."  The  surgeon's  tone  was 
one  of  inquiry,  and  instantly  suggestive  of  the  who 
and  how  of  his  patient's  caretaking. 

"He  has  a  wife,"  Travers  said. 

"Ah,  a  weak,  delicate  woman,  perhaps?" 

"No,  a  fine,  large,  strong  woman.  She  was  not  in- 
jured, I  take  it.  She  is  in  there  with  friends,"  he 
hesitated.  "You  had  better  see  her,  possibly." 

"I  will,  presently.  He  must  be  aroused  from  this 
stupor  first."  The  surgeon  and  the  assistant  worked 
over  Conningsby  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer. 
Travers  helped  them.  He  might  have  gone  away,  but 
he  made  himself  stop  just  there  and  minister  to  Sidney 
Conningsby.  At  the  end  of  about  the  fifteen  minutes 
the  wounded  man's  eyes  opened.  There  was  a  brill- 
iant and  splendid  light  shining  in  them.  He  glanced 
around  with  perfect  intelligence  and  with  more  alacrity 
than  when  he  had  first  entered  this  house. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked  of  the  doctor. 

Travers  nodded  across,  whispered,  "  He  means  his 
wife,"  and  indicated  the  library  with  his  eyes. 

210 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"Do  you  mean  your  wife,  Mr.  Conningsby?"  the 
surgeon  asked,  gently. 

"I  mean — Beatrice."  He  spoke  with  a  singular, 
distinct  slowness. 

"I  will  fetch  Mrs.  Conningsby,  doctor."  Travers 
went  to  the  library  and  opened  the  door.  He  looked 
in.  Buck  Grant  was  there  alone. 

"Where  are  they?"  Travers  asked,  abruptly. 

"I  don't  know;  the  room  was  empty  when  I  came 
in.  Up-stairs,  perhaps,  or — " 

"They  could  not  get  up-stairs  without  my  having 
seen  them."  He  opened  the  door  leading  into  the 
butler's  pantry,  and  made  inquiry  of  the  servants  in 
the  kitchen.  No  one  had  passed  that  way.  He  came 
back,  and  .observed,  then,  that  the  door  leading  out 
was  just  ajar.  He  stepped  on  to  the  balcony  and 
looked  about.  No  one  was  to  be  seen,  but  there  were 
fresh,  footprints  on  the  path  leading  thence  to  the  gate. 
He  was  mystified  and  alarmed.  He  came  in  and  closed 
the  door.  "Mr.  Conningsby  wishes  to  see — " 

"His  wife,  I  presume,"  the  clergyman  said. 

"Yes,  he 'calls  for  Beatrice." 

"For  whom?"  Buck  Grant  asked,  in  a  quick,  startled 
way. 

"Beatrice." 

" Oh!"  With  the  greater  wisdom  he  was  now  silent; 
he  stood  and  looked  down. 

"She  has  gone  away,"  Travers  said,  in  a  curious, 
strained  .voice. 

"Who?"  asked  his  old  friend. 

"  Conningsby's  wife,  evidently.  It  is  strange  that 
she  should  go  and  leave  him  here  under  these  circum- 
stances, isn't  it?" 

211 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"I— don't  know." 

" But  you  know  her,  man  alive!  What  is  it  ?  What 
shall  I  tell  him?  He  is  in  a  serious  condition,  and 
wants  her." 

"Tell  him  she  has  gone  home." 

Travers  was  nonplussed.  He  did  not  just  then 
care  a  rap  about  Conningsby's  wife.  He  was  thinking 
of  Judith,  trying  to  see  his  way  clear  to  accounting 
for  her  disappearance,  palpitating  with  impatience  to 
get  away  from  here  and  seek  and  find  her. 

"Where  is  her  home?"  he  asked,  succinctly,  im- 
patiently. 

Buck  Grant  gave  him  the  number  of  the  Ninety- 
sixth  Street  flat-house.  He  listened,  and  said  noth- 
ing. So  the  Conningsbys  lived  in  the  same  house 
with  Judith!  Ah,  he  caught  at  the  idea.  Mrs.  Con- 
ningsby, for  reasons  of  her  own,  had  wished  to  go 
home.  Judith  had  accompanied  her,  without  saying 
anything.  Mrs.  Cdhningsby  had  been  hysterical, 
doubtless,  and  Judith  would  return  presently.  No, 
he  knew  Judith  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  she  would 
not  return.  He  must  go  for  her.  At  the  same  time 
he  would  see  Mrs.  Conningsby,  inform  her  of  her  hus- 
band's condition,  and  bring  her  back  with  him  if  he 
could. 

"You  know  her  so  well,  Buck,  is  there  any  reason 
why  she  should  want  to  get  away  from  her  hus- 
band?" 

"I  don't  know."     Buck  Grant  walked  the  floor. 

"Well,  very  well,  I'll  see  to  it."  Travers  returned 
to  the  patient. 

"Mrs.  Conningsby  has  gone  home;  she  was  very 
faint  and  upset.  I  will  go  and  fetch  her,  or  see  how 

212 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

she  is,  and  be  back  soon."  He  motioned  the  doctor 
aside,  and  told  him. 

"Is  she  coming?"  Conningsby  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  medical  man  answered,  "she  is  com- 
ing." He  added  in  a  low  tone  to  Travers:  "Yes, 
bring  her  if  you  can.  He  must  not  be  thwarted; 
much  depends  on  that." 

Travers  rang  up  his  auto  from  the  near-by  gar- 
age, and  in  a  few  moments  was  off.  Buck  Grant 
waited  in  the  library.  When  Travers  reached  the 
Ninety -sixth  Street  house  he  could  not  find  the  name 
of  Harriman  nor  yet  that  of  Conningsby.  He  rang 
every  one  of  the  five  bells  in  turn,  and  spoke  with 
various  people.  The  first  flat  was  apparently  vacant. 
The  tenant  of  the  second  told  him  that  the  Connings- 
bys  and  Miss  Harriman  had  moved  away  some  time 
since.  The  tenants  of  the  third  and  fourth  knew 
nothing  of  their  neighbors;  they  had  recently  moved 
in.  The  fifth  floor  occupant  was  out,  at  least  he  could 
not  obtain  any  response  to  his  ringing.  While  the 
janitor  was  densely  ignorant  of  all  things  save  that 
the  Conningsbys  no  longer  lived  there,  and  he  did  not 
know  where  they  did  live,  except  that  Mr.  Conningsby 
slept,  he  thought,  in  the  flat  which  he  would  vacate 
on  the  first  of  the  month ;  but  he  took  no  meals  there, 
he  was  sure,  because  no  grocers  or  marketmen  ever 
came  for  him;  and  as  to  Mrs.  Conningsby,  she  had 
left  some  time  ago  with  her  trunks. 

Travers  came  out  in  the  street  and  stood  still.  The 
Conningsby  muddle  did  not  impress  him  much,  save 
that  his  clear  brain  absorbed  the  information  it  had 
received,  coupled  this  with  the  fact  of  Mrs.  Connings- 
by's  having  left  her  husband  in  a  time  of  need,  and 

213 


THE  UNDEFILED 

made  a  result  of  wedded  infelicity.  His  one  thought 
was  Judith.  Where,  now,  should  he  seek  her?  Why 
had  she  never  told  him  that  she  lived  in  the  same 
house  with  Conningsby?  And  yet  why  should  she? 
Why  had  she  not  told  him  when  she  had  moved  from 
the  Ninety-sixth  Street  house  ?  Where  had  she  moved 
to?  Where  had  this  absurd,  hysterical  Mrs.  Con- 
ningsby taken  her?  He  was  baffled.  He  jumped  into 
the  auto,  and  said  to  his  man: 

"  Back  to  the  Bronx,  fast  as  you  can.  Risk  arrest, 
but  be  quick  about  it."  He  had  an  intuition  that 
perhaps  he  might  find  her  there,  or  find  some  word 
from  her.  He  did  not.  Buck  Grant  sat  in  the 
library.  The  surgeon,  more  anxious  than  before, 
watched  over  the  injured  man.  The  young  assistant 
stood  solemnly  by.  The  eyes  of  all  three  men  turned 
full  upon  the  master  of  the  house  as  he  entered.  He 
strode  into  the  drawing-room,  and  the  doctor  followed 
him  with  questioning  in  his  every  feature. 

"I  can't  find  Mrs.  Conningsby." 

"That  is  bad,"  the  surgeon  said.  Buck  Grant 
turned  pale,  but  he  was  silent.  He  took  his  hat,  put 
it  on,  and  went  away,  determined  to  find  her  if  he  had 
to  use  any  and  all  means. 

"It  is  very  bad,"  the  medical  man  continued,  "be- 
cause he  is  beginning  to  be  a  bit  light-headed,  and  that 
is  the  thing  I  most  dread,  the  brain.  He  is  a  very 
sick  man." 

Then  Conningsby  himself  called  out  with  the  hectic 
intensity  of  sudden  fever: 

"Beatrice!     Beatrice!" 

The  young  assistant  spoke  soothingly. 

"Beatrice  will  be  here  soon,  sir,  very  soon." 
214 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

"No,"  cried  the  patient,  eying  Travers,  who,  to- 
gether with  the  surgeon,  was  now  near  him.  "No. 
Send  her  away.  I  don't  want  her.  No,  I  want 
Judith,  Judith.  Beg  her  to  come  to  me.  Tell  her 
Sidney  wants  her,  she  will  come.  Tell  her,  by  the 
memory" — his  voice  sank  to  a  queer,  indistinct,  shy 
murmur — "of  our  love,  to  come  to  me  now." 

The  surgeon  looked  at  Travers. 

"Do  you  know  who  Judith  is?"  he  asked.  "Be- 
cause, if  you  do,  I  will  myself  go  for  her." 

"Yes,  I  know  who  she  is." 

"Where  is  she  to  be  found?" 

"That  I  do  not  know,"  Travers  replied. 

"  I'll  ask  him."  The  doctor  bent  above  his  patient. 
"Tell  me  where  I  can  find  her,  and  I  will  fetch  her." 

"At  home,"  Conningsby  whispered.  Then  he  add- 
ed with  a  grim  laugh:  "No,  no,  not  at  home.  I  don't 
know.  I  really  don't.  Unless  —  yes,  to  be  sure,  at 
the  Goodhue  publishing  house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  near 
Twenty-third  Street.  She  is  going  to  revise  the  book 
for  me.  She  will  come.  I  know  she  will." 

"To  be  sure,"  the  surgeon  said,  gently.  "Miss 
Judith — er — the  last  name?"  He  glanced  from  Con- 
ningsby to  Travers.  Both  men's  lips  framed  the 
name  of  "Harriman."  He  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
went  towards  the  door. 

Travers  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Doctor,"  he  said,  "you  forget,  perhaps,  that  at 
this  hour — it's  ten  o'clock — all  these  office- buildings 
are  closed  for  the  day.  Leave  it  to  me." 

"True.     Well,  very  well,  I  will,  then." 

Conningsby's  brilliant  eyes  drooped;  he  fell  into  a 
doze.  The  surgeon  touched  his  pulse  and  his  heart. 

215 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"It  is  a  curious  case.     Pardon  me,  Mr. — " 

"Travers." 

"Mr.  Travers;  but  if  this  man  is  moved  to  a  hos- 
pital there  is  danger.  Naturally,  you  don't  want  a 
stranger  here.  I  appreciate  that.  Yet  I  am  in  honor 
bound  to  tell  you  that  there  is  danger  in  moving  him, 
especially  under  these  apparently  singular  and  strained 
family  conditions." 

"He  will  not  be  moved,"  Travers  said,  quietly. 

"  It  may  be  a  matter  of  months,  or  hours,  I  cannot 
say." 

"It  makes  no  difference  if  it  is  years."  In  some 
fashion  he  was  making  it  up  to  Conningsby  just  now 
for  having  been  glad  for  a  single  second  that  his 
chances  of  life  were  few.  "This  house  is  at  his  com- 
mand, and  all  it  contains."  The  surgeon  shook  Trav- 
ers's  hand. 

"Send  for  nurses,  and  whatever  else  is  needed. 
Nothing  need  be  spared.  The  servants  are  on  call.  I 
will  come  in  each  day.  No,  I  don't  live  here.  I  had 
only  just  furnished  the  house."  The  surgeon  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  tongueless  bell  of  roses,  and 
was  still.  He  knew  a  tragedy  when  he  saw  it.  He 
left  the  assistant,  went  away,  and  in  a  half-hour  Con- 
ningsby, with  his  white-capped  attendants,  was  in- 
stalled in  an  upper  room  of  the  house,  the  deed  to 
which  was  lying  in  Judith's  pocket. 

The  next  morning  at  half -past  eight  Travers  was  at 
the  Goodhue  publishing  rooms  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Yes, 
Miss  Harriman  was  due  there  that  very  day  to  begin 
at  her  new  post.  No,  they  did  not  know  her  address. 
They  thought  they  had  it,  but  it  must  have  been  mis- 
laid. Her  notes  to  them?  Oh,  to  be  sure;  here  they 

216 


CONNINGSBY'S  WIFE 

were, dated  from  such  a  number  Nassau  Street,  Travers's 
own  office!  When  was  she  to  be  here?  At  half -past 
nine.  Would  he  wait  so  long  ?  He  would.  He  did. 
He  waited  until  five  in  the  afternoon,  but  she  never 
came. 


XVII 

THE    YELLOW-HAIRED    WORSHIPPER 

BUCK  GRANT  spent  several  hours  in  a  vain  in- 
vestigation of  the  flat -house  in  Ninety -sixth 
Street.  To  be  sure,  he  was  a  little  more  informed  than 
Travers  when  he  got  through  his  series  of  calls,  because 
he  found  Mrs.  Bronson,  Beatrice  Bond's  aunt,  at  home. 
She  was  able  to  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Conningsby  had  left 
for  a  visit  to  her  mother,  so  Mr.  Conningsby  had 
said,  some  long  time  since;  that  Mr.  Conningsby  had 
been  taking  his  meals  with  her  until  recently,  but 
now  she  believed  he  had  joined  his  wife  off  West 
somewhere;  that  her  niece  had  left  for  a  visit  to  a 
friend  that  very  day,  and  that,  to  be  sure — did  he  not 
know  it? — the  baby  was  dead.  Buck's  first  impulse 
was  to  put  a  detective  on  the  case,  but  second  thoughts 
were  better.  He  could  not  put  a  detective  up  to 
watching  Judith.  Why  should  he?  If  she  had  left 
her  husband  in  this  stressful  time,  taken  advantage  of 
the  accident  to  get  away  from  him,  should  he  inter- 
fere to  dog  her  footsteps  or  put  stumbling-blocks  in 
her  path  ?  By  no  means.  Yet  he  was  a  craven  as  to 
her  safety.  Could  this  girl  whom  Travers  was  to 
marry  have  misled  Judith  into  some  bit  of  impish  ex- 
travagance or  sen  timentalism  ?  Impossible.  And,by- 
the-way,  the  best  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be  to  go 

218 


THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER 

back  to  the  house  in  the  Bronx,  and  find  out  if  there 
were  any  news  there  of  either  Judith,  or  the  girl  to 
whom  he  was  to  marry  Travers.  He  went  up  there 
the  following  morning  at  about  the  time  that  Travers 
was  sitting  waiting  for  Judith  to  come  to  the  Goodhue 
Publishing  Company.  He  learned  but  little.  The 
nurses  could  only  tell  him  that  the  patient  was  to 
be  there  indefinitely,  that  Mr.  Travers  gave  up  the 
house  to  his  use.  "Mrs.  Conningsby?"  They  had 
not  heard  of  her  at  all;  she  was  not  there.  Yes,  Mr. 
Conningsby  called  for  "Judith"  much  of  the  time. 
He  was  not  delirious,  but  his  brain  was  undoubtedly 
affected.  No  lady  had  been  there  at  all.  Nor  was 
any  one  expected,  so  far  as  they  knew.  Mr.  Travers 
said  he  would  look  in  every  day.  The  doctor  was  due 
at  eleven,  and  two  consulting  physicians  at  three. 

Buck  went  down  to  Travers 's  office,  but  as  Travers 
spent  the  day  at  the  Goodhue  office  he  did  not  see 
him,  and  could  only  leave  a  note,  saying  that  he  had 
to  get  back  to  his  parish,  and  to  wire  him  if  he  could 
be  of  any  further  service  to  him.  At  five  o'clock, 
when  the  Goodhue  office  closed  up,  Travers  walked  out 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  his  impulse  was  identical  with 
Grant's,  to  employ  detectives.  But  his  second  thought 
was  also  better,  and  the  idea  of  having  Judith  shadowed 
was  revolting.  But  he  might  have  Mrs.  Conningsby 
shadowed,  and  thus  indirectly  obtain  the  information 
he  sought.  How  did  Mrs.  Conningsby  look?  What 
were  her  customs,  habits?  Where  did  she  live,  even? 
Where  were  her  haunts,  her  friends  ?  What  clew  could 
he  give  a  detective  ?  None  of  any  account.  He  would 
go  up  and  see  Conningsby,  and  talk  to  him,  if  the 
doctor  would  permit  it.  He  would  have  to  confide  to 
is  219 


THE  UNDEFILED 

the  doctor  that  Mrs.  Conningsby  had  disappeared 
mysteriously.  Well,  what  of  it?  Physicians  were  all 
father  confessors  more  or  less,  and  this  one  had  said 
much  depended  upon  the  injured  man's  not  being 
thwarted;  upon  his  having  the  person  near  him  for 
whom  he  asked.  He  had  last  asked  for  Judith.  That 
was  doubtless  a  vagary,  and  yet  she  had  been  living 
in  the  same  house  with  him,  and  had  not  said  so. 
Did  any  doubt  enter  Travers's  brain?  None.  He 
did  not  even  have  to  bargain  with  his  brain  and  heart 
to  suspend  judgment ;  he  had  no  need.  He  loved  and 
trusted  and  cared  for  her  implicitly.  His  one  great 
longing  was  to  find,  protect,  soothe,  comfort,  and 
keep  her  forever  with  him.  He  was  mystified,  and 
there  he  let  it  stop. 

He  went  up  to  the  house  in  the  Bronx.  He  met 
the  doctor  coming  out.  Yes,  he  might  see  the  pa- 
tient, certainly,  but  not  oppose  him;  humor  him  in 
every  way.  To  be  sure,  it  was  a  pitiful  affair,  this, 
about  Mrs.  Conningsby's  disappearance.  It  would  be 
advisable  to  find  her  if  possible,  and  perhaps  even  a 
headstrong  woman  would  concede  her  presence  to  a 
husband  who  lay  on  a  probable  death-bed.  To  be 
sure,  he  called  mostly  for  Judith,  and  the  surgeon  un- 
derstood, correctly,  he  believed,  that  Mrs.  Connings- 
by's name  was  Beatrice.  Now,  if  Judith  could  be 
found?  Yes,  it  would  be  well,  more  than  well.  Such 
things  aided,  indeed,  occasionally  rendered  possible, 
recoveries  otherwise  hopeless.  Mr.  Travers  was  very 
good  to  be  at  so  much  trouble  about  a  total  stranger. 
Common  humanity  —  no,  most  uncommon.  Good- 
day.  Travers  went  in,  and  the  nurse  motioned  him 
that  he  might  go  up  and  into  the  big  room  on  the 

220 


THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER 

second  floor.  It  was  the  room  Travers  had  had  fur- 
nished in  crimson  and  mahogany  for  himself.  The 
dainty  pink-and-white-and-gold  suite  opposite  which 
he  had  planned  for  Judith  was  locked  up,  the  key  was 
in  his  pocket.  He  had  locked  it  the  night  before 
when  he  had  given  up  the  house  to  Conningsby's  use. 
He  entered  the  room  where  the  injured  man  lay. 

"I  remember  you" — Sidney  exclaimed  in  a  quick, 
feverish  voice — -"very  well.  I  saw  you  once  at  the 
Faxons',  talking  to — talking  to  Judith.  We  had  met 
before,  though,  somewhere  about  town.  Sit  down, 
sit  down.  When  did  you  see  Judith  last,  tell  me?" 

"Yesterday,"  Travers  answered,  gently. 

"But  where?"  wonderingly. 

Travers  was  intent  on  his  own  errand,  and  replied: 
"Well,  somewhere;  it  doesn't  matter.  By-the-way, 
where  does  Mrs.  Conningsby  most  generally  go  to  shop, 
or  walk,  or  visit,  for  instance?"  He  smiled  amiably, 
and  with  not  too  much  interest. 

Conningsby  seemed  puzzled.  He  said:  "I  don't 
know  where  she  shops.  I  hardly  think  she  has  time 
to  walk  much  nowadays,  and  as  to  visiting,  I  hardly 
believe  she  visits  any  one." 

"Ah."     It  was  ejaculated  without  inflection. 

"Can't  you  find  her?"  Sidney  asked,  querulously. 
"Is  that  it?" 

"That's  it,"  Travers  answered  in  a  commonplace 
way,  while  one  of  the  nurses  arranged  the  lights.  Her 
glance  showed  him  he  was  not  pursuing  any  wrong 
direction.  "Now,  perhaps,  you  might  give  me  a  bit 
of  a  clew  where  to  seek  for  her." 

"The  Goodhue  Publishing  Company,"  Conningsby 
said,  while  his  cheeks  flushed.  Travers  looked  at  him. 

221 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Clearly  his  brain  was  a  bit  muddled.  He  was  mixing 
up  his  wife,  and  Judith.  Then  he  recalled  that  the 
patient  must  be  humored,  so  he  responded: 

"Yes,  I  went  there,  but  she  was  not  there." 

"You  did?     And  she  was  not  there?" 

"No." 

"Didn't  they  know  where  she  lived,  either?" 

Decidedly  the  injured  man  was  wandering. 

"No,"  Travers  said,  softly.  "But  just  try  a  little 
to  remember.  You  know  where  she  lives,  I  am  sure. 
If  you  will  tell  me  I  will  go  and  fetch  her  right  away." 
The  nurse  smiled  approval  of  these  tactics. 

Conningsby's  lids  fell  over  his  beautiful,  brilliant, 
restless  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know.  She  did  not  tell  me  when  she  went 
away.  No,  Judith  did  not  tell  me."  He  was  wander- 
ing, of  course. 

"Does  Beatrice  know,  perhaps?"  Travers  asked, 
gently. 

"Beatrice!"  the  sick  man  exclaimed.  "Beatrice 
would  kill  her.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  Beatrice.  Go 
and  find  Judith,  quick,  eh?" 

"I  can't  find  Judith  unless  I  know  where  Beatrice 
is,"  Travers  said,  with  interesting  wisdom. 

"Bah!  they  don't  speak  to  each  other." 

"Oh,  they  have  made  it  up,"  Travers  remarked  at 
random,  his  heart  throbbing  with  the  deferred  hope  of 
getting  hold  of  some  even  meagre  clew  to  his  girl. 

"Have  they  —  made  it  up?"  He  repeated  the 
words  suspiciously,  sharply.  "That's  too  good." 
Conningsby  laughed;  stopping  suddenly  and  fixing 
his  gaze  on  Travers,  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
and  stared  at  the  man  who  sat  at  his  bedside.  "See 

222 


THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER 

here,"  he  cried,  "what  do  you  know  about  my  wife, 
anyway,  and  my  affairs?     Come,  out  with  it!" 

The  nurse  put  up  a  warning  finger  at  Sidney's  back. 
Travers  said,  in  a  low,  even  tone:  "I  only  know,  Mr. 
Conningsby,  that  Mrs.  Conningsby  was  here  last  night, 
and—" 

Sidney  stared  at  Travers.  "Oh,  was  she?"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  then  he  fell  back  on  his  pillow.  He 
grasped  Travers 's  arm  tightly.  "Are  you  sure  she 
was  here?" 

"Yes." 

"She  came,  then?" 

Travers  inclined  his  head. 

"You  are  not  deceiving  me?"  in 'a  frenzied  way. 

"No,  no;  Mrs.  Conningsby  was  here  last  night." 

"Oh!"  His  eyes  again  closed,  and  his  fingers  re- 
laxed their  hold  on  Travers 's  arm. 

"I  was  unconscious,  I  suppose?" 

"Very  likely,"  Travers  replied. 

"She  will  come  back?"  tensely. 

"If  we  can  only  find  her.  I  came  up  to  see  if  you 
could  not  direct  me  a  bit.  I  am  sure  she  wants  to  come." 

"You  think  she  does?"  feverishly. 

"I  think  so,"  kindly. 

"Do  you  know  her  well?" 

"No." 

"Has  she  ever  talked  of  me  to  you?" 

"No,  I  only  met  her  last  night,  you  see." 

Conningsby  regarded  his  host.  "You  forget  that 
time  at  the  Faxons'." 

"Oh  yes,  to  be  sure."  He  did  just  recall  having 
seen  Beatrice  there,  and  what  he  had  said  of  her  to 
Judith.  "To  be  sure." 

223 


THE  UNDEFILED 

The  bell  then  rang  sharply,  and  in  a  moment  or 
two  a  servant  handed  the  nurse  a  note  for  Mr.  Travers. 
Bob  took  it  out  of  the  woman's  hand  eagerly.  He 
saw  that  it  was  from  Judith.  Conningsby  saw  it  too. 
His  face  lighted  up  with  joy. 

" That  is  from  Judith!"  he  cried.  "I'd  know  her  big 
handwriting  a  mile  away." 

Travers  said  "Yes,"  with  a  jealous  pang  that  this 
man  should  have  it  in  his  power  to  say  this  thing  of 
Judith's  writing. 

"Open  it!  Open  it!"  cried  Conningsby.  "It  will 
say  that  she  is  coming  to  me." 

Bob  Travers  crossed  away  from  the  bed  towards 
one  of  the  windows,  and  pulled  up  the  shade  a  little 
as  if  he  were  needing  more  light.  He  opened  the  en- 
velope, took  out  the  sheet,  and  quickly  scanned  the 
few  lines  written  on  it. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  try  to  find  me.  Do  not.  It  is  useless. 
The  present  crisis  is  a  strange  one.  I  am  safe.  No  harm  has 
come  to  me.  God  keep  you  always." 

He  stared  at  the  few  words,  while  Conningsby's  black, 
intense  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 

"Well!  well!"  the  injured  man  exclaimed,  peevishly. 
"  Is  she  coming  or  not  ?" 

"No,  she  is  not  coming,"  Travers  answered,  putting 
the  note  and  its  envelope  in  his  vest  pocket,  pulling 
down  the  shade,  and  returning  to  the  bedside. 

Conningsby  moaned  in  a  grieved  way.  "Where  is 
she?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.     There  is  no  address  given." 

"What  is  she  writing  to  you  for,  anyway?"  Sidney 
cried  out,  suddenly.  "I'd  like  to  know.  Who  are 

224 


THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER 

you?  Why  are  you  here?  What  place  is  this?  Isn't 
it  a  hospital?"  His  words  came  querulously  and  his 
cheeks  flushed  and  burned. 

The  nurse  held  up  a  warning  finger  and  said: 
"Humor  him." 

So  Bob  replied,  gently,  "No,  Mr.  Conningsby,  this 
is  not  a  hospital;  it  is  my  house.  You  were  thrown 
out  of  your  cab,  you  remember,  at  the  curb  there, 
rounding  the  corner  last  night — " 

"Yes,  yes,  with  Beatrice." 

"Yes." 

"  Your  house  ?    Who  are  you  ?     I  forget  your  name." 

"Travers.     Robert  Elliston  Travers." 

"To  be  sure.  Well,  what  do  you  keep  me  here  for? 
Why  not  send  me  to  a  hospital — the  free  ward  ?  I'm 
poor,  devilish  poor." 

"Nonsense!"  Travers  waved  his  hand.  "That's 
all  right.  Glad  to  have  you  here.  You'll  be  yourself 
again  soon." 

"Are  you  married?" 

"No." 

"You  admired  Judith.  I  noticed  that  the  time  I 
saw  you  at  the  Faxons'  talking  to  her." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  ponderous,  slow  fashion.  "I 
admired  her,  of  course." 

"Most  men  do."     Conningsby  laughed  a  little. 

"Ah!" 

"Will  you  let  me  read  her  note  to  you?"  His  eyes 
were  growing  more  and  more  brilliant,  and  the  red 
spots  on  his  cheeks  more  vivid. 

"Why,"  Bob  spoke  in  a  deliberate,  commonplace 
tone,  "would  that,  now,  be  just  the  thing  for  a  fellow 
to  do,  Mr.  Conningsby?" 

225 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Why  not?" 

"Give  another  man  a  woman's  note,  however  trivial, 
to  read?" 

"Under  the  circumstances." 

"What  circumstances?"  Travers  inquired,  coldly. 

"I  have  a  right."  Conningsby  spoke  with  heat, 
and  his  hand  was  extended  for  what  he  wanted. 

The  nurse  left  the  room  just  at  that  moment  to 
meet  a  mounting  footstep.  Bob  Travers  was  silent 
for  Judith's  sake.  Whatever  this  man's  right  might 
have  been,  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  of  it  from  any  lips 
but  hers.  Pshaw!  Then  he  recollected  the  man  was 
not  clear-headed,  not  quite  himself.  He  would  not  give 
him  the  letter,  but  he  would  temporize,  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak  when  Conningsby  grasped  his  vest,  and, 
in  pushing  his  coat  aside,  disclosed  the  turquoise  ring 
which  he  always  wore  at  his  fob. 

"That's  Judith's  ring,"  he  whispered,  in  a  tense  voice. 
"What  are  you  doing  with  it?  I  gave  it  to  her.  She 
told  me  three  years  ago  she  did  not  know  what  had  be- 
come of  it.  Answer  me;  I  have  a  right  to  know  this, 
too."  His  fingers  were  on  the  turquoise  ring  and  the 
end  of  the  note,  when  Travers,  willing  to  gratify  his 
every  whim,  said,  indulgently: 

"What  right?" 

"Hello!  Hello!"  The  surgeon  came  in  and  in- 
stantly noted  the  excited  attitude  of  his  patient,  whose 
right  hand  was  at  Travers's  vest-pocket.  "What's 
all  this?  My  dear  Mr.  Conningsby,  you  must  keep 
quiet.  Mr.  Travers,  have  the  goodness  to  go  into 
another  room." 

"No,  no,  I  say!"  Conningsby  sat  up  straight  in 
the  bed  and  clung  to  Travers  fiercely.  "He's  got  a 

226 


THE  YELLOW-HAIRED  WORSHIPPER 

letter — in  his  pocket — from — my  wife.  I  want  to  see 
it." 

Travers  and  the  doctor  exchanged  a  glance  of  mean- 
ing over  the  sick  man's  head.  Travers  shook  his  head. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  dear  fellow.  Now  look  here,  I'm 
sure  your  wife — Beatrice,  eh  ? — is  not  writing  letters 
to  Mr.  Travers  or  any  other  man.  We'll  have  her 
here  in  no  time  to  put  such  notions  out  of  your  head. 
Eh  ?"  to  the  nurse,  who  smilingly  bore  out  this  pleasing 
assertion. 

"Beatrice,"  repeated  Conningsby,  loosening  his  hold 
of  the  other  man.  "Yes,  yes — Beatrice."  He  sank 
back  on  the  pillows  which  the  nurse  arranged. 

"Don't  you  recall  that  she,  too,  was  thrown  out  of 
the  cab  last  night,  Mr.  Conningsby  ?  I  carried  her  in. 
She  was  not  injured."  Travers  spoke  as  he  was  at  the 
door. 

"Then  where  is  she?"  the  patient  asked,  gravely, 
looking  from  one  man  to  the  other.  The  two  men  ex- 
changed another  glance  of  comprehension. 

Travers  said,  "  I  am  going  to  find  her  and  bring  her 
to  you." 

"No!"  shrieked  Conningsby.  "Don't  you  do  it.  I 
don't  want  her.  I  never  want  to  see  her  again.  The 
infernal,  yellow-haired  worshipper!  What  does  a  man 
want  with  a  woman  who  thinks  him  a  god  and  kneels 
to  him,  and  never  says  no — to  any  cursed  thing  he 
asks  her  for?  Keep  her  out  of  my  sight  —  do  you 
hear?" 

The  doctor  administered  a  powerful  anodyne;  the 
nurse  held  the  patient's  hands  in  hers.  Travers  left 
shortly  for  his  hotel. 


XVIII 

FOR   THE    OTHER    WOMAN'S    SAKE 

THAT  night  that  Judith  took  Beatrice  Bond  home 
with  her  to  the  boarding-house  she  lay  down  on 
the  broad  couch  and  made  her  visitor  sleep  in  the 
bed.  Beatrice  sobbed  most  of  the  hours  away,  while 
Judith  lay  awake  thinking  it  out.  By  dawn  she  had 
made  her  plans,  and  experienced  a  certain  kind  of 
strength  and  refreshment,  notwithstanding  her  wake- 
ful night;  that  exhilaration  which  comes  to  a  strong, 
coherent  nature  when  the  mind  is  made  up  to  a  course 
laid  out  by  conscience.  She  had  about  three  hundred 
dollars  which  she  had  saved  since  she  had  been  sup- 
porting herself.  She  had  not  put  it  in  a  bank,  hence 
it  was  available  on  the  spot.  Money  is  a  prime  fac- 
tor, after  all,  and  it  was  of  the  money  that  Judith 
first  thought.  She  felt  assured  that  it  would  be  of 
no  use  to  reason  or  argue  with  Beatrice,  and  that  so 
long  as  it  were  possible  for  Beatrice  to  get  to  Con- 
ningsby  she  would  not  rest  until  she  were  with  him. 
The  only  thing  to  do,  then,  was  to  take  Beatrice 
where  Sidney  Conningsby  would  be  inaccessible  to 
her.  Why  Judith  felt  called  upon  to  interest  herself 
in  this  girl,  who  loved  her  husband  and  was  loved  by 
him,  she  did  not  stop  to  explain  even  to  her  own  soul. 
The  fundamental  fact  of  this  woman,  her  peril,  her 

228 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

utter  insufficiency,  and  her  absolute  aloneness  were  the 
things  which  struck  Judith  and  caused  her  to  agree 
with  herself  to  do  certain  things  which  she  had  hith- 
erto deemed  impossibilities.  Even  now,  when  the  ar- 
rangements were  complete  in  every  detail  in  her  own 
brain,  she  yet  paused  to  give  Beatrice  her  chance  to 
save  herself,  and  also  to  see  if  she  (Judith)  might  not 
be  respited  forever  from  the  performance  of  something 
that  was  repugnant  and  abhorrent  to  her  whole  nature. 
She  rose,  took  her  bath,  and  then  came  back  into  the 
room,  and,  leaning  over  the  bed  where  Beatrice  Bond 
lay,  she  said: 

"Beatrice,  will  you  get  up  for  breakfast,  or  shall  I 
fetch  it  to  you?" 

"I  don't  want  any  breakfast.     I  can't  eat." 

"Oh  yes,  you  can.     I'll  bring  it  here  to  you." 

"No,  don't.  I'll  get  up  and  dress.  I  am  going 
back  to  see  him,"  excitedly. 

"Where  will  you  go?"  pertinently. 

"  Back  to  that  house  in  the  Bronx.  I  was  not  so 
stupid  that  I  did  not  notice  where  I  was.  I  can  find 
the  way." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  he  is  there?  People  in 
private  houses  are  not  apt  to  entertain  strangers  who 
may  meet  with  accidents  at  their  doors." 

"True.  Then  he  is  at  a  hospital.  I  will  hunt  for 
him  in  every  hospital  in  New  York." 

"No,  you  won't.  Beatrice,  think  a  minute,  just  a 
minute,"  she  pleaded,  kneeling  down  by  the  bed 
where  the  other  girl  lay  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"I  have  thought  until  I'm  nearly  dead  and  crazed. 
What  do  you  know  about  a  love  like  mine?  You 

229 


THE  UNDEFILED 

might  talk  to  me  about  my  immortal  soul  until  you 
dropped  down.  It's  my  immortal  love  for  this  man 
that  makes  life  for  me.  You  are  not  built  that  way. 
You  are  selfish.  You  would  have  to  be  besought  and 
implored.  I  am  generous.  I  give — my  all." 

"No,"  Judith  spoke  very  gently,  "not  all." 

"I  will,  too,"  Beatrice  cried,  fiercely.  "Let  me 
alone,  will  you?" 

"Not  for  a  moment." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Beatrice  stared.  Some- 
thing in  Judith's  tone  coerced  her  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Just  what  I  say.  Get  up  and  dress  yourself.  We 
will  go  down  to  breakfast.  Then  we  will  go  out  into 
the  streets,  and  you  will  see." 

"You  can't  make  me  do  as  you  say.  No  one  can 
force  me  away  from  Sidney  Conningsby,  not  even 
you,  his  wife." 

"It  won't  be  force,  Beatrice,"  Judith  answered,  "it 
will  be  your  own  good  common -sense,  your  own  de- 
cency, your  own  self-respect,  your  own  womanli- 
ness." 

"Hush  up!"  The  leaven  of  vulgarity  which  is  the 
inevitable  accompaniment  of  a  temperament  like  this 
girl's,  jumped  into  the  foreground. 

Judith  shook  her  head.     "No,  I'll  not  hush." 

"Yes,  you  will,  too!"  Beatrice  sprang  up  and 
grasped  Judith's  shoulders  with  her  powerful  large 
white  hands.  She  gave  her  a  violent  shake,  so  that 
the  big  coils  of  her  dark  hair  came  undone  and  hung 
about  her.  "Ah,  you  ice  and  snow  creature  you! 
Tell  me,  do  you  love  Sidney  Conningsby?  Do  you 
think  you  do?  I  suppose  that's  it.  You  can  preach 
goodness  and  all  that  to  me,  because  you  want  to 

230 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

keep  me  from  him.     You  want  him  for  yourself.     Tell 
me  the  truth.     Don't  lie  to  me." 

Judith  lifted  Beatrice's  hands  away  from  her  shoul- 
ders with  a  firmer  touch  than  that  of  the  frenzied  girl. 
"Shall  I?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course,  you  shall." 

"Well,  I  do  not  love  him  at  all.  I  despise  him  for 
what  he  would  bring  you  to  ruthlessly  and  without  one 
thought  of  your  ultimate  existence.  Listen  to  me. 
This  man  whom  you  care  so  for  can,  if  he  chooses,  ar- 
range for  a  divorce  from  me,  and  be  married  decently 
and  legally  to  you.  Has  he  ever  told  you  that,  pro- 
posed that  to  you? — asked  you  to  be  his  wife?" 

Beatrice  Bond  remained  silent. 

"No,  he  has  not,"  Judith  went  on.  "But  he  did 
ask  you  to  go  away  with  him.  There  is  your  bag  of 
clothes,  which  I  brought  from  that  up-town  house  last 
night  for  you.  He  took  you  away  from  your  aunt's  in 
Ninety-sixth  Street,  at  least  with  your  self-indepen- 
dence not  fatally  impaired ;  what  and  how  would  he 
have  brought  you  back?  I  love  such  a  man  as  that!" 
Her  great  eyes  blazed,  and  the  fire  in  them  was  of  the 
Occident  and  the  Orient  both,  the  Northern  light  of  a 
great  uprightness,  the  avenging  brilliancy  of  a  kind  of 
occultism.  Beatrice  Bond  cowered  a  little  and  shrank 
away.  Then  she  straightened  herself  and  rallied. 

"You  don't  understand  him;  you  never  did." 

"Oh,  I  am  just  the  one  person  in  the  world  who 
does  understand  him." 

"No,"  Beatrice  said — "no.  His  temperament  is  ar- 
tistic, psychic;  he  is  not  like  other  men." 

"Artistic  nonsense!"  broke  in  Judith,  harshly.  "He 
is  the  consummation  of  selfishness  and  greed." 

231 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"Greed?" 

"Yes,  greed  of  pleasure,  of  flattery,  of  the  world's 
opinion,  of  comfort,  ease,  being  taken  care  of,  fed, 
clothed,  looked  after,  coaxed,  smiled  at,  and  housed 
warmly!"  The  limit  of  scorn  was  attained  in  her  tone 
and  her  attitude. 

"Much  you  know  of  him.     He  loves  me." 

"And  would  not  obtain  a  divorce,  and  give  you  his 
name,  because  it  might  injure  his  literary  and  social 
career.  Love!  You  are  mad." 

"Silence!"  screamed  Beatrice  Bond.  "You  were 
never  worthy  of  him  for  a  second.  I  am  not  worthy 
of  him — not  even  of  what  he  would  give  me.  Now!" 

"You!  Not  worthy  of  him!"  Judith  stared  at  the 
other  girl.  "You  mean  that  such  a  cad  is  not  worthy 
of  any  woman  capable  of  feeling  and  sacrifice.  He 
would  walk  over  your  body  much  as  he  would  over  a 
silk  rug,  because  it  was  something  warm  and  soft. 
Come,  get  up,  please,  and  dress  yourself." 

"I  won't!" 

"  Please!"  She  even  did  violence  to  her  own  nature, 
and  touched  Beatrice  Bond's  arm  to  assist  her.  Bea- 
trice pulled  herself  away.  "  You  won't  ?"  Judith  asked. 

"No,  I  won't.  I'll  lie  here  until  I  can  get  up  and 
go  to  him."  She  spoke  with  a  bitter  determination. 

"Do  you  see  the  telephone  over  there  in  the  cor- 
ner?" asked  Judith. 

"Yes,  I  see  it."  Beatrice  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  get  up  and  dress,  and  do  as  I 
say,  I  will  call  up  two  doctors,  and  have  you  com- 
mitted to  the  insane  ward  of  the  City  Hospital  in  ten 
minutes.  It  can  be  done,  and  it  will  be  done  before  I 

232 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

will  sit  by  and  see  you  go  back  and  fling  yourself  away 
on  Sidney  Conningsby,  or  any  other  man  that  lives." 

Beatrice  Bond  lay  quite  still  now.  She  did  not  ut- 
ter a  word.  There  was  something  compelling,  virile, 
absolute  about  Judith.  Beatrice  knew  perfectly  well 
that  the  threat  would  be  carried  out,  and  she  was  still 
sane  enough  to  prefer  the  out  to  the  inside  of  an  in- 
sane ward. 

By-and-by  she  rose  and  dressed  herself,  ate  a  bit 
of  breakfast,  and  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  when  asked 
to.  Judith  took  her  to  a  steamship  office  far  down 
Broadway.  Here  she  secured  for  one  hundred  and 
forty  dollars  two  first-class  passages  to  Havre,  a  ship 
sailing  the  next  day,  Saturday.  It  was  not  difficult 
at  that  time  of  year ;  the  boats  were  far  from  crowded. 
She  then  took  her  to  a  restaurant  for  some  luncheon, 
and  thence  back  to  the  boarding-house.  As  the  sail- 
ing hour  was  5  A.M.,  passengers  had  to  be  on  board 
Friday  evening,  and  the  remaining  hours  of  that 
day  were  well  filled  by  the  packing  of  Judith's  own 
trunks,  and  putting  in  the  bags  a  few  necessaries 
which  she  had  bought  for  Beatrice.  They  took  their 
dinner  at  the  boarding-house  table.  When  they 
came  up-stairs  to  the  room  Beatrice  put  on  her  hat 
and  coat,  and  picked  up  her  own  suit-case,  the  one 
with  which  she  had  quitted  the  flat-house  somewhat 
earlier  on  the  previous  day.  She  sprang  to  the  door. 
Judith  reached  it  before  her.  The  telephone  instru- 
ment was  at  the  door.  Her  hand  was  on  the  receiver. 

"You  can't  leave  me,  Beatrice,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"If  you  want  a  choice  of  Europe,  or  the  place  I  spoke 
of  this  morning,  you  can  take  it,  but  back  to  Sidney 
Conningsby  you  don't  go." 

233 


THE  UNDEFILED 

The  irony  of  fate  and  its  jests  with  hearts  is  great, 
when  one  recalls  that  at  almost  this  very  moment 
Conningsby  was  crying  out  that  he  would  not  have 
Beatrice  brought  near  him,  and  did  not  want  her. 

"I  will!  I  will!  I  will!"  shrieked  the  big,  golden- 
haired  girl.  Then  she  started,  as  if  she  had  been 
stabbed  by  some  sudden,  sharp  thought.  She  said 
with  virulence:  "How  did  you  come  to  be  in  that 
house  in  the  Bronx  last  night,  eh?" 

Judith  answered  slowly,  and  with  infinite  repose  and 
balance:  "That  is  my  affair.  Now,  you  can  go  to  the 
insane  ward,  or  you  can  go  with  me.  Well,  which  is  it 
to  be?"  she  inquired,  after  a  pause.  "Choose." 

Beatrice  Bond  staggered,  withdrew,  sat  down  on  a 
chair,  and  sobbed. 

Judith  looked  at  her  —  pitiful,  wretched,  oblique 
sight  that  she  was — and  compassion  once  more  stirred 
her.  She  went  to  her  and  said:  "Look  here.  Don't 
behave  as  if  there  were  no  future  for  you ;  there  is.  If 
he  loves  you  truly,  he  will  not  rest  without  you.  No 
man  ever  does  when  he  knows  the  woman  cares  for 
him.  He  will  come  to  himself.  He  will  obtain  his 
freedom  from  me.  I  will  learn  of  this  in  the  nature 
of  things.  I  must.  Then  I  will  send  or  take  you 
back  to  America,  and  you  can  be  his  wife." 

Her  voice,  in  its  pathetic  intensity,  sank  to  a  whis- 
per. "Come, now,  it  is  time  to  go.  The  cab  is  at  the 
door.  Come  away  with  the  idea  in  your  mind  that  he 
may  prove  to  be  what  you  and  I  hope  he  will."  And 
in  her  soul  she  had  no  thought  of  any  one  save  the  girl 
to  whom  she  spoke. 

Beatrice  Bond  got  up  and  crossed  to  the  door,  near 
Judith.  "Why  are  you  doing  this  ?"  she  asked,  harshly. 

234 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

"Why?"  the  other  girl  echoed.  "Because  I'd  rath- 
er see  you  glad  to  be  alive  than  sorry.  Come." 

They  went  down,  and  in  a  half -hour  were  on  board 
the  ship. 

It  is  astonishing  what  an  ocean  voyage,  even  a  run  of 
seven  days,  often  does  for  a  person  in  a  state  of  mental 
derangement.  Beatrice  was  unruly  enough  for  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  inveighed  bitterly  against  fate  in  gen- 
eral and  Judith  in  particular.  She  was  at  various  times 
going  to  kill  herself,  and  she  was  most  positively  going 
back  to  New  York  on  the  first  ship  sailing  when  she 
should  arrive  in  Cherbourg.  The  fact  is,  she  did  neither 
of  these  things,  but  with  a  species  of  veiled  and  sullen 
interest,  when  they  reached  the  other  side,  she  began  to 
wonder  what  would  be  done  with  her  next.  Nothing  ever 
had  been  done  with  Beatrice  by  any  one.  She  had  so 
far  in  her  life  not  aroused  any  active  interest  in  either 
man  or  woman.  She  had  taken  up  art  by  herself,  and 
been  fairly  successful.  She  had  gone  abroad  after  she 
knew  of  Conningsby's  engagement,  and  she  had  lived 
in  Munich  for  a  year.  It  had  proved  a  dull  and  in- 
effectual twelvemonth,  so  far  as  experience  was  con- 
cerned, however  much  she  may  have  improved  in 
miniature  painting.  She  had  never  had  a  mental 
tonic  before,  and  Judith,  with  her  keen,  instantaneous 
powers  of  appraisal,  had  been  sure  that  the  enlighten- 
ment and  novelty  which  would  be  afforded  the  girl 
by  accompanying  her,  would  prove  of  much  assistance 
to  her  in  recovering  a  lost  balance. 

The  train  arrived  in  Paris  at  ten  o'clock  at  night. 

The  customs   delay  was  nominal,  and  the  two  girls, 

with  their  small   luggage,  were   very   soon   seated  in 

a  cab.     The  traps  were  piled  on  top,  and  then  Ju- 

'«  235 


THE  UNDEFILED 

dith  said,  softly,  in  his  own  language  to  the  coach- 
man: 

"The  Hotel  Saint- Antoine,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Sainte- 
Vierge." 

Beatrice  Bond  did  not  understand  a  word  of  French. 
She  said:  "Where  are  we  going  to?"  It  was  the  first 
question  she  had  asked  since  she  left  New  York.  Her 
companion  was  glad  to  hear  her  ask.  She  felt  that 
things  might  now  go  better,  and  with  less  acute  pain 
for  the  girl  at  her  side. 

"We  are  going  to  my  mother." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  mother,"  Beatrice  gasped, 
in  astonishment. 

"Oh  yes.  I  have  not  seen  her  in  some  years.  She 
does  not  know  I  am  coming." 

"But  me?  She  will  not  like  to  have  a  stranger 
sprung  upon  her  like  this." 

"She  lives  in  a  hotel.  Any  one  can  go  to  a  hotel. 
She  will  not  object  to  you  at  all." 

"Oh,  she  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you  that  she  will 
not  count  me?" 

"That  is  just  the  fact." 

Beatrice  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  said, 
petulantly:  "This  is  an  intolerable  situation.  It  is 
strange,  unprecedented  —  you  and  I  going  to  your 
mother.  I  will  not  stand  it.  Let  me  get  out  of  here, 
and  go  somewhere  by  myself  until  I  can  get  back  to 
America."  She  began  to  weep,  and  to  tear  off  her 
hat  and  veil. 

"Well,"  Judith  answered,  coldly,  "as  you  do  not 
speak  French,  as  it  is  now  eleven  o'clock,  as  you  have 
no  money,  I  think  you  had  better  stop  with  me  a 
while  longer."  She  was  intensely  romantic  and  as 

236 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

intensely  practical;  a  combination,  when  found,  which 
insures  a  joy  to  the  one  finding  it. 

"Shall  you  tell  your  mother  about  me?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  Beatrice,  I  will  never,  as  long 
as  I  may  live,  tell  any  one  about  you." 

"  What  will  you  say,  then,  to  account  for  me  ?"  The 
other  hesitated  with  her  hat  now. 

"  I  will  say  you  are  a  friend  whose  health  needed  a 
change  of  scene,  and  that  you  have  come  over  with 
me  for  a  first  visit  to  Paris." 

"But  the  money?"  cried  Beatrice,  who  at  this  mo- 
ment, precisely,  recollected  the  necessity  for  such  a 
commodity.  "I  have  none,  and  I'm  sure  you  can't 
have  much,  and  it  costs  to  do  things  like  this." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  dark-haired  girl,  in  a  curious, 
strained  voice,  "it  costs." 

"A  great  deal,"  pursued  Beatrice. 

"A  great  deal,"  echoed  the  other  one,  in  a  melan- 
choly whisper. 

"Have  you  money?  Is  your  mother  very  rich?" 
The  vulgar  vein  protruded,  but  Judith  was  glad  of 
the  vulgar  vein.  It  would  help  the  cure,  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  assuagement. 

"No,  my  mother  is  quite  poor,  not  at  all  well  off,  I 
should  say;  but  I  shall  have  very  soon  a  great  deal 
of  money." 

"You  will?"  Miss  Bond's  light  eyes  flashed.  Judith 
turned  and  regarded  her  with  infinite  and  careful  cu- 
riosity. "How  splendid  it  must  be  to  have  lots  and 
lots  of  money!" 

Judith  again  looked  with  great  interest  at  the  girl 
who  sat  beside  her.  Her  thought  was:  "I  have  not 
been  mistaken."  She  said  aloud  to  Beatrice:  "What 

237 


THE  UNDEFILED 

would  you  do  if  you  had  a  large  sum  of  your  own?" 
She  rather  dreaded  the  answer;  she  supposed  it  might 
include  her  husband's  name.  It  did  not  at  first. 

"Oh,"  cried  Beatrice,  "I'd  have  beautiful  clothes 
and  things,  jewels,  rugs,  pictures,  horses,  a  yacht,  an 
automobile!  Why  do  you  ask  me  such  foolish  ques- 
tions? I'd  go  straight  back  to  Sidney  and  give  it  all 
to  him.  He  adores  beautiful  things,  he  needs  them, 
his  nature  is  fine,  it  corresponds  with  all  that  is  luxu- 
rious and  magnificent." 

"A  man  must  work  for  the  indulgence  of  such 
tastes,"  Sidney's  wife  said,  composedly. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  work.  I  wish  I  had  the 
money  to  lavish  it  on  him.  Work!  He  is  too  great 
to  work.  He  needs  leisure,  like  flowers  and  trees." 

"Work  is  the  greatest  thing  for  a  man  in  the  whole 
world,  and  the  man  who  would  live  on  a  woman's 
money  is  despicable." 

"You're  too  sweeping.  I'd  work  my  hands  off  for 
Sidney  Conningsby.  And  if  a  man  loves  a  woman  he 
can  accept  anything  from  her." 

"Yes,"  assented  Judith,  "if  he  does,  and  if  he  is 
incapable  of  earning  it." 

"You  mean  you  think  he  doesn't  love  me!"  she 
cried  out,  vehemently. 

"Here  we  are."  The  coachman  descended;  the 
modest  luggage  was  carried  in  at  the  strange,  dark  little 
porte-cochere  of  the  H6tel  Saint- Antoine;  the  pour- 
boire  given,  the  cab  rattled  away;  the  porter  gathered 
up  the  little  bags,  and  the  two  young  women  followed 
him  into  the  dingy  court,  where  a  single  flickering 
candle  in  the  hand  of  a  frowsy  woman  only  served  up 
the  dismal  shabbiness  with  a  lamentable  accentuation. 

238 


FOR  THE  OTHER  WOMAN'S  SAKE 

There  were  rooms,  certainly,  on  the  third  floor;  no, 
nothing  on  the  second  or  the  entresol.  Was  Madame 
Harriman  at  home?  Most  assuredly.  These  ladies 
were  friends  of  Madame  Harriman  ?  —  from  America  ? 
Hold!  what  a  delightful  surprise!  Hold,  again! 
Now  that  the  respectable,  if  frowsy,  lady  with  the 
candle  obtained  a  full  view  of  Judith's  face  she  actu- 
ally dropped  the  luminary  in  her  chaste  excitement. 
The  beautiful  daughter  of  Madame  Harriman,  once 
again  a  guest  beneath  the  humble  roof  of  the  Hdtel 
Saint- Antoine!  After  so  many  years,  and  no  changes 
in  her  charming  face!  Hold!  not  married  yet,  and 
his  Grace  in  the  same  unhappy  plight!  But  the 
world  was  strange,  and  how  honored  was  the  lady 
with  the  locks  all  mixed  up  of  silver  and  gold,  to  once 
more  behold  Mademoiselle  Judith.  Tears  of  joy 
came  to  her  eyes  as  she  relighted  the  sputtering 
candle,  and  with  her  own  hands  seized  a  few  of  the 
bags,  and  led  the  way  up  the  steep  and  narrow  stairs. 
Of  course,  the  friend  of  mademoiselle  was  welcome  at 
the  same  fixed  price  as  herself.  The  little,  comfort- 
able, and  ravishing  room  on  the  court — mademoiselle 
remembered  ? — with  coffee  served  in  the  bed  at  eight, 
breakfast  with  the  fork  at  twelve,  and  dinner  at  seven. 
Such  dinners!  Ah,  but  it  was  a  chef,  veritably,  who 
now  prepared  these  celestial  meals.  Mademoiselle 
Bon'  would  be  more  than  pleased  and  surprised  at  the 
elegance  of  the  service  and  the  quality  of  the  inmates, 
at  such  a  ridiculous  fixed  price,  too.  Yes,  the  stair- 
case was  no  shorter,  that  was  indeed  true.  Should 
she  not  then  precede  mesdemoiselles,  and  announce 
them?  No.  It  was,  indeed,  to  surprise  madame,  the 
mother?  To  be  sure.  Would  she  show  the  beautiful 

239 


THE  UNDEFILED 

room  on  the  court  to  Mademoiselle  Bon',  thus  leaving 
Mademoiselle  Judith  to  fall  alone  into  the  arms  of  her 
unsuspecting  mamma?  Ah,  she  would,  indeed,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure.  She  did,  chatting  all  the  while 
to  the  uncomprehending  girl,  and  kindly  disposing  her 
and  her  belongings  about  the  tiny  room,  brewing  her 
coffee,  and  purring  over  her  as  only  perhaps  this  par- 
ticular type  of  Frenchwoman  can  and  will.  She  had 
once  been  a  first  dancer  at  the  opera.  There  was  still 
a  hint  of  the  foot-lights  in  the  gilded  wisps  of  her  gray 
hair,  in  the  frank  spots  of  rouge  on  her  fat  cheeks, 
in  the  splendid  black  cosmetique  eyelashes  which  did 
duty  at  the  corners  of  her  bright  small  eyes. 

Judith  knew  that  she  was  leaving  Beatrice  in  good 
hands  as  she  passed  farther  along  the  hall,  stumbling 
a  bit  over  frayed  bits  of  carpet  until  she  came  to  a 
door  she  knew  very  well.  The  crack  beneath  it  was 
wide,  and  the  light  shone  through ;  also  there  came  the 
click  of  cards,  the  clink  of  glasses,  and  the  murmur  of 
voices.  She  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  woman's  voice,  in  an  ill-pleased 
tone. 

"But  come  in,  then,"  exclaimed  a  man's  voice. 

Judith  opened  the  door,  and  stood  before  her  mother 
and  the  Duke  de  Montre"sor. 


XIX 

TWENTY    MILLIONS    OP    FRANCS 

UDY!"  cried  the  mother,  astonishment  having  quite 
the  best  of  any  joy  that  might  accrue,  as  the  cards 
she  held  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"But,  Judith,  my  adorable  one!"  ejaculated  the 
Duke,  springing  from  his  ricketty  chair,  thereby  up- 
setting it,  picking  it  up  gracefully,  and  offering  to 
hand  the  new-comer  more  intimately  within  the  room. 

"Is  it  you,  my  daughter,  or  your  ghost?"  Mrs. 
Harriman  said,  at  last,  recovering  her  breath. 

"  Oh,  it's  I,  mother.  You  are  well  ?  How  do  things 
go  ?  Still  here  at  the  H6tel  Saint- Antoine,  I  see,  and 
his  Grace  as  amiable  as  ever."  She  surveyed  the  card- 
table,  with  its  glasses,  decanter,  and  little  pile  of  silver 
coins. 

Mrs.  Harriman,  who  was  marvellously  young-look- 
ing, almost  slender,  and  reminiscently  pretty,  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  poured  her  child  a  glass  of  wine. 

But  Judith  said:  "No,  thank  you;  you  forget  I 
never  touch  it." 

Again  the  mother  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "What 
will  you?  I  am  here,  of  course.  Where  else  can  I 
live  on  my  absurd  income?  And  since  you  have  be- 
haved for  four  years  with  such  brutality  towards  me, 
causing  me  all  the  horrible  annoyances  of  poverty, 

241 


THE  UNDEFILED 

when  you  might  have  placed  me  in  the  affluence 
which  I  have  had  a  right  to  expect,  what  other  or 
better  place  than  this  could  I  find?" 

"Yes,"  the  daughter  replied,  vaguely. 

"Ah,  but,  madame,"  expostulated  his  Grace, 
"mademoiselle  has  now  come  back  to  our  beautiful 
France." 

"Oh,  Gaston  has  been  my  sole  consolation.  He 
has  never  given  up  the  hope  that  you  would  come 
back,  be  sensible,  take  what  belongs  to  you,  and  take 
him  also,"  smiling. 

"  Oui,  madame."  His  Grace  took  a  semi-sentimental 
turn  up  the  small  room,  incidentally  adjusting  his 
cravat. 

Judith  smiled  enigmatically.  She  rather  enjoyed 
the  Duke's  real  perturbation  and  the  wild  hopes  which 
she,  too,  well  knew  her  appearance  must  arouse. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Harriman  said,  "now  tell  me  all  about 
yourself.  Tired,  I  suppose,  of  battling  with  the  world, 
you  have  concluded  to  be  rational?" 

"Yes,  I  am  tired,  that  is  true,"  responded  the 
daughter;  "also  that  I  have  come  over  here  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  being  what  you  call  rational." 

"My  beloved  child!"  Mrs.  Harriman  rose,  and  ex- 
tended her  arms  towards  her  daughter.  Judith,  with 
a  motion  of  grace,  waved  the  maternal  arms  away. 

"There  is  no  need  for  that.  We  have  not  seen  each 
other  for  years.  I  am  here  to  fulfil  French  law,  and 
apply  in  person  for  the  immense  fortune  of  my  great- 
aunts,  because  that  is  the  only  way  it  can  be  had,  and 
now  I  want  it." 

"Ah,  my  beautiful  Judith!"  His  Grace  de  Mon- 
trdsor  advanced  towards  her.  "How  is  it  that  now 

242 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

you  want  it,  eh?  And  to  have  allowed  it  to  repose, 
gathering  interest  all  this  time  when  you  might  have 
had  it  at  once,  as  I  represented  to  you  before  you  left 
us,  also  when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  beholding  you  in 
New  York  on  two  memorable  occasions." 

"Be  quiet,  Gaston,"  the  mother  cried,  "or  else  she 
may  change  her  mind  again." 

"No,  I  shall  not,"  the  daughter  smiled.  "But  I 
wish  to  tell  you  just  why  I  am  going  to  accept  these 
millions  now." 

"You  repent  your  silly  course,  my  dear?  That  was 
inevitable.  Of  course,  one  comprehends." 

"Assuredly,"  confirmed  his  Grace. 

"No,  I  don't  think  one  comprehends  at  all,"  re- 
marked Judith.  "You  and  I  and  the  Duke  here 
plotted  and  schemed  to  obtain  this  fortune  when  the 
owners  of  it  had  willed  it  in  another  direction.  That 
we  did  not  succeed  was — " 

"Due  entirely  to  your  ridiculous  notions,  my  dear, 
by  giving  way  to  which  you  did  yourself  out  of  it 
then.  But  Fate  was  kind,  and  left  no  will.  You 
were  the  heir-at-law.  It  is  law,  law!"  cried  the 
mother,  excitedly.  "What  more  do  you  want  than 
law  on  your  side?" 

"Less,"  the  girl  said,  quietly.  "They  did  not  mean 
me  to  have  it,  and  I  don't  intend  to  have  it." 

"What!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Harriman,  so  piercingly 
that  both  Beatrice  and  the  parti-haired  landlady 
paused  in  their  coffee-making,  and  the  latter  tiptoed 
along  the  narrow  corridor  to  apply  a  discreet  ear  to 
the  keyhole,  as  befitted  a  lady  whose  business  it  was 
to  acquaint  herself  with  the  affairs  of  her  lodgers,  lest 
grief  should  come  to  them. 

243 


THE  UNDEFILED 

"But,  my  adored  Judith!"  His  Grace  shuddered 
as  he  partly  knelt  at  her  side.  "Speak  not  in  these 
enigmas.  I  implore  of  you,  have  a  pity  upon  me!" 

Mrs.  Harriman  now  withdrew  into  the  alcove,  and 
pulled  the  curtains,  to  weep. 

"You  arrive  here  to  arouse  my  dearest  hopes.  I 
behold  in  your  eyes,  perhaps,  the  resurrection  of  a 
love  that  once,  I  believe,  was  mine." 

"No,"  Judith  said,  "you  don't." 

"You  will  not,  then,  entertain  me  as  your  suitor? 
You  will  not  permit  me  to  take  you  to-morrow  before 
the  courts  to  claim,  to  receive,  to  bear  away,  the 
bonds  and  securities,  the  great  and  noble  fortune, 
which  is  yours?" 

"I  think  not." 

"What  are  you  here  for,  then?"  This  from  the 
mother,  who  emerged  from  tears  at  so  harrowing  a 
moment  to  a  would-be  son-in-law. 

"I  intend  to  claim  and  accept  this  fortune,  but  not 
to  keep  it." 

"Alas!  the  poor,  I  suppose!"  gasped  his  Grace.  He 
rose  from  his  knees. 

"No,"  responded  Judith.  "Where  it  goes  is  my  af- 
fair. But  I  want  you  both  to  understand  that  I  per- 
sonally shall  not  keep  one  sou  of  it;  that's  all." 

The  man  and  the  mother  exchanged  a  glance  over 
the  bent  head  of  the  daughter.  It  meant  conciliation, 
and  hope,  and  a  toleration  of  one  perhaps  eccentric, 
but  whom  they  could  and  would  mould  to  their  will. 
The  mother  left  the  room  under  the  pretext  of  seek- 
ing the  good  landlady  to  arrange  for  apartments  for 
her  daughter. 

Then  Gaston  de  Montre'sor  resumed  his  love-making, 
244 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

with  all  that  ardor  which  a  beautiful  and  fascinating 
woman  can  inspire,  especially  when  coupled  with  the 
belief  that  eventually  she  will  represent  a  large  num- 
ber of  millions. 

What  to  him  was  money!  Nothing.  It  was  his 
worshipped  Judith  whom  he  wanted,  without  whom 
he  had  nearly  suffered  death  several  times  —  once 
when,  in  distraction,  he  had  cast  himself  into  the 
Seine;  also  from  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower;  also  be- 
neath the  wheels  of  an  electric  car!  He  had  ridden 
recklessly,  he  had  fought  purposeful  duels  in  Italy, 
hoping  to  be  left  a  corpse  for  her  cruel  sake!  Fort- 
unes! What  were  they  to  him  ?  Nothing.  He  would 
live  upon  her  smile  and  be  happy! 

She  listened  to  him.  Her  sense  of  the  ludicrous  was 
keen,  and  she  forecast  a  certain  moment  in  the  near 
future  when  all  these  asseverations  would  look  as  cheap 
and  tawdry  to  his  Grace  as  they  now  did  to  her.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Harriman  returned.  She  closed  the  door, 
hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  said : 

"You  have  brought  some  one  with  you?" 

"Yes,  a  girl  who  has  been  ill,  and  needed  a  sea- voy- 
age. She  is  an  artist.  She  cannot  speak  French. 
She  will  not  be  here  long.  Neither  will  I." 

Again  the  older  woman  and  the  man  exchanged  a 
look  over  the  head  of  the  daughter ;  the  mother's  color 
rose,  her  dark  eyes  flashed  as  she  came  across  to 
where  Judith  sat. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  get  this 
money,  and  then  bestow  it  on  a  lot  of  paupers,  a 
lot  of  drivelling  babies,  or  old  idiots,  or  sisters  of 
charity,  and  leave  me,  your  mother,  sitting  up  high 
and  dry  here,  in  shabby  clothes,  on  the  third  floor 

245 


THE  UNDEF1LED 

of  a    nasty  little   hotel   in   the   meanest   quarter  of 
Paris?" 

"I  don't  mean,  mother,  to  tell  you  anything  about 
it  yet.  Good-night.  Good-night,"  she  said,  includ- 
ing his  Grace,  as  she  left  them  together. 

"Did  you  ever!"  cried  the  mother. 

"Alas!  it  is  incredible."     His  Grace  paced  the  floor. 

"  I  tell  you  it  shall  not  be,"  Mrs.  Harriman  muttered. 

"But,  madame,  once  before  you  said  the  same. 
Mademoiselle,  she  says  it  shall  be,  and  there!" 

"But  she  is  here,  she  openly  says,  to  claim  the 
estates,  and  the  bonds,  and  so  forth.  Well,  she  will 
claim  them  to-morrow,  probably.  The  formalities 
are  merely  nominal,  my  dear  Gaston.  Have  not  you 
and  I  gone  over  the  situation  dozens  of  times?  Do 
we  not  know  that  one  hour  is  all  that  is  required  at 
the  court,  that  the  main  thing  is  the  personal  appear- 
ance there  of  the  claimant  and  heir?  I  am  correct?" 

"Perfectly  so,  madame.     What  of  it?" 

"  What  of  it  ?  Once  the  necessary  papers  are  in  her 
hands,  can  we  not  prevent  her  in  some  way  from  pass- 
ing them  over  to  charity? — eh? — tell  me  that." 

"Ah,  madame,  the  Church,  that  is  one  powerful  af- 
fair. The  inclination  of  Mademoiselle  Judith,  that  is, 
look  you,  another,  by  blue!  I  think,  madame,  that 
we  can  do  nothing." 

"I  thought  you  loved  her?"  The  mother's  tone 
was  satirical.  , 

"Madame,  I  swear  to  you  I  do!" 

"Well,  then,  can  you  not  influence  her?  Just 
Heaven!  My  dear  Duke,  twenty  millions  of  francs  in 
securities,  setting  aside  the  estates,  is  no  jest!" 

"Alas!  no,  madame,  very  serious." 
246 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

"Can  you  not  coax,  urge,  promise  to  shoot  yourself, 
do  some  of  the  things  men  do  who  are  desperate? 
Twenty  millions  to  charity  !  Bah  !"  The  baffled 
mother  walked  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  hungry- 
hyena.  The  handsome,  alert  Frenchman  watched 
her  while  he  shuffled  a  pack  of  cards  in  an  absent 
fashion. 

"But,  madame,  she  cares  not  for  me  any  more,  if 
ever  she  did." 

"That  other  man  you  spoke  of  in  New  York,  the 
one  who  defeated  your  plans?" 

"Perhaps.     Who  can  say?" 

"You  are  an  imbecile,"  whispered  the  angry  woman, 
in  a  hoarse,  low  tone. 

"Yes,  madame,  there  is  a  description  of  woman 
who  reduces  men  to  that  estate.  Your  daughter  is 
one  of  them."  His  Grace  was  clever,  appreciative, 
and  knew  when  he  was  beaten. 

"If  I  were  a  man  I'd  find  some  way  to  circumvent 
her." 

"No,  madame,  no,  you  would  not.  It  would  take 
more  than  man,  or  woman,  either,  to  do  so  for  your 
adorable  child.  She  is  unique.  One  sees  other  wom- 
en, and  one  may  coerce,  intimidate,  plead  with  them. 
One  feels  mademoiselle,  and  one  succumbs.  Mad- 
emoiselle will  never  succumb,  madame,  except  to  the 
man  she  will  adore.  He  is  not  named  Gaston  de 
Montresor." 

"You  are  a  fool!" 

"Yes,  madame.  I  kiss  your  hands,  madame. 
Good-evening.  I  won  from  you  two  francs.  It  is 
well.  I  will  have  the  honor  of  calling  on  you  and 
mademoiselle  to-morrow.  I  may?" 

247 


THE   UNDEFILED 

"Of  course,"  cried  Mrs.  Harriman.  "We  must  at 
least  try  to  do  something." 

"Ah,  madame;  mademoiselle  will  do  it  all  this 
time,"  and  his  Grace  bowed  himself  out  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"Two  francs!  Two  francs!  Gloves  can  be  bought 
at  the  Petit  St.  Thomas  for  that  price.  They  split, 
sometimes  down  the  back,  sometimes  down  the  palm, 
but  one  must  wear  gloves.  And  my  child  to-morrow 
will  possess  twenty  millions  of  francs."  She  ground 
her  teeth  together.  Then  she  put  up  her  hair  in  curl- 
papers, made  some  coffee,  drank  it,  and  went  to  bed. 

Occasionally  the  most  important  matters  can  be 
settled  in  very  short  order,  and  by  the  simplest  means. 
The  formalities  connected  with  Judith  Harriman's  as- 
sumption of  her  rights  as  sole  heir  to  an  immense 
fortune  were  trifling,  and  occupied  but  little  time. 
The  consummation  of  the  transfer  from  State  keeping 
to  the  heir  would,  it  was  true,  be  impossible  under 
three  days,  but  twenty-four  hours  after  her  arrival 
in  Paris,  Judith,  accompanied  by  her  mother  and  Bea- 
trice Bond,  having  gone  to  the  designated  govern- 
ment building,  was,  after  some  provings  by  papers, 
witnesses,  and  the  like,  asked,  as  the  sole  further  ne- 
cessity, to  sign  her  name  to  various  largely  sealed 
and  ponderous  -  looking  documents.  She  read  them 
carefully  over,  while  the  five  lawyers  regarded  her  as 
carefully.  Then  she  signed  her  name,  "Judith  Harri- 
man Conningsby,"  while  her  mother  looked  over  her 
shoulder. 

"What  is  this,  'Conningsby?'"  gasped  Mrs.  Harri- 
man, falling  back  a  pace,  while  each  of  the  five  legal 
gentlemen  eyed  the  signature. 

248 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

"  Conningsby  ?"  they  enunciated,  in  concert. 

"Yes,"  remarked  the  heiress,  casually.  "I  am 
married.  Here  is  my  marriage  certificate."  She  took 
it  from  her  coat-pocket  and  handed  it  to  the  senior 
attorney.  He  read  it;  they  all  read  it.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  said.  They  were  silent.  Beatrice,  not 
being  aware  of  what  was  going  on,  could  say  noth- 
ing. Presently  his  Grace  joined  them  to  take  the 
ladies  to  luncheon  at  Bignon's.  He  was  then  first 
presented  to  Beatrice.  She  had  seen  him  from  her 
window  when  he  had  come  to  Fairfield  long  ago.  He 
had  never  seen  her.  His  Grace  impressed  Beatrice  as 
being  handsome — and — a  duke. 

Beatrice  Bond  and  Mrs.  Harriman  left  the  Palais  de 
Justice  with  the  Duke.  Judith  remained  there.  She 
had  an  appointment  with  the  magistrate  and  the 
counsellors.  They  went,  therefore,  without  her,  to 
the  beautiful  gilded  cafe"  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 
Mrs.  Harriman  spoke  partly  in  English  in  deference 
to  Miss  Bond,  so  did  his  Grace,  although  he  made  a 
not  ungraceful  occasional  aside  remark  to  Mrs.  Harri- 
man apropos  of  the  blonde  demoiselle,  whom  he  did 
not  regard  with  anything  but  unresponsive  toleration. 
**She  is  a  lump,"  he  vouchsafed  to  the  chaperon  in 
French,  between  his  urgings  upon  "the  lump"  of 
frogs'  legs  and  caviare. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Harriman  to  Miss  Bond,  "you 
see,  my  dear,  his  Grace  here  has  long  been  a  suitor  for 
my  daughter's  hand — " 

"But  yes,  mademoiselle,"  chimed  in  his  Grace, 
hopefully. 

"And  it  now  becomes  very  painful  for  me,  dear 
Gaston,  to  inform  you,"  continued  Mrs.  Harriman, 

249 


THE  UNDEFILED 

but  in  French,  "that  Ju*dith  is  already  married."  She 
enjoyed  the  shock  she  gave.  His  Grace  generally  had 
won  her  money. 

"Madame!"  Montre"sor  had  never  given  up  hope 
until  this  moment.  His  glass  of  absinthe  shook  in  his 
hand.  It  interested  Beatrice  extremely  to  watch  him. 
She  found  him  aristocratic,  novel,  delightful.  She  un- 
consciously measured  him  with  Conningsby,  and  did 
not  accuse  herself  of  disloyalty  as  she  did  so.  She 
didn't  know  what  he  was  saying,  but  his  gestures  were 
what  she  called  elegant. 

"To  the  gentleman  of  the  hotel  affair?"  exclaimed 
his  Grace. 

"I  don't  know.  I  know  nothing  but  the  bare  fact 
that  she  is  married,  and  that  the  fortune  will  be  in 
her  hands  completely  in  three  days."  Mrs.  Harriman 
drained  her  cup. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  a  widow,"  cried  the  Duke.  "  Where 
is,  then,  this  husband,  eh?" 

"\  don't  know." 

"  Perhaps  this  young  lady,  who  is  her  friend,  doubt- 
less, can  tell  us  something.  Ask  her." 

"I  will."  She  turned  to  Beatrice  Bond.  "My  re- 
lations with  my  daughter,  Miss  Bond,  have  been 
strained.  I  adore  her.  She  has  been  eccentric.  She 
is  secretive.  Pray  tell  me,  is  Judith  a  widow?" 

"No,"  cried  Beatrice,  "oh  no."  Then  a  great, 
trembling  fear  came  upon  this  girl.  What  if  Sidney 
had  died  of  his  injuries,  and  she  was  sitting  here 
enjoying  herself! — she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  de- 
ported away  from  him  by  his  wife!  She  sprang  up, 
looked  about  her  in  a  helpless  fashion,  and  said:  "Take 
me  back  to  the  hotel,  please,  won't  you  ?" 

250 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

"Mademoiselle  is  ill!"  The  Duke  rose  and  assisted 
her.  They  took  her  back  to  the  Hotel  Saint- Antoine, 
and  laid  her  on  the  couch  in  the  beautiful  apartment 
at  the  fixed  price. 

When  Judith  came  in  from  her  conference  with  the 
lawyers  she  found  Beatrice  sobbing,  and  Mrs.  Harri- 
man  swaying  helplessly  near  her  in  an  American  rock- 
ing -  chair.  His  Grace  hovered  in  the  corridor.  He 
was  waiting  for  Judith  to  return.  He  caught  at  her 
hand  as  she  was  coming  from  the  other  fixed-price 
room.  "Judith,  my  idolized  one!  It  is  not  a  truth, 
you  are  not  the  wife  of  any  one  ?  Tell  me.  Speak  to 
me." 

Judith  hesitated,  then  she  answered:  "  I  am  married. 
I  have  been  married  for  nearly  three  years.  It  is  too 
bad,  but  the  fortune  would  never  have  been  yours 
even  had  I  chosen  to  accept  you."  She  smiled. 

"But,  my  dear  child,  speak  not  of  fortunes.  It  is 
yours  now,  it  is  absolutely  yours.  Yes."  His  agile 
Grace  saw  a  divorce  court  looming  pleasantly  before 
his  eager  eyes. 

"Yes,  it  is  mine.  It  will  remain  mine  for  a  few 
days,  then  it  will  be  handed  over  to  those  to  whom  I 
intend  to  give  it." 

"By  blue!  you  are  insane!" 

She  laughed  a  little,  passed  him  by,  and  went  on 
into  Beatrice's  room.  Mrs.  Harriman  was  glad  to 
leave  it.  She  had  no  inclination  for  illness  or  sorrow. 
She  said  she  had  had  enough  of  these  things,  and 
could  not  stand  any  more  of  them.  She  went  to  her 
own  parlor  to  meet  Montresor,  and  to  plot  with  him 
some  method  of  obtaining,  at  the  least,  a  slice  of  her 
daughter's  fortune. 

17  251 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Beatrice  jumped  up  as  soon  as  Judith  and  she  were 
alone  together. 

"This  farce  has  got  to  end,"  she  cried  out.  "Give 
me  a  little  money  to  buy  a  ticket  back  to  America. 
Sidney  may  be  dying.  I  am  a  fool,  a  heartless  fool, 
to  have  come.  You  must  have  hypnotized  me.  I  tell 
you"  —  she  came  in  front  of  Judith,  and  shook  her 
big,  white  fist  in  her  face — "I  must  go  away,  back 
to  him.  You  don't  want  him.  You  don't  love  him. 
Let  me  go." 

"No,"  the  other  one  said,  "you  can't  go.  Sit  down, 
and  be  quiet." 

"No,  I  won't." 

"Very  well,  then,  please  yourself." 

Beatrice  flung  herself  down  on  a  chair. 

"Am  I  to  spend  all  my  life  here,  pray,  because  you 
say  so?" 

"No,  you  may  return  to  New  York  in  a  week,  if 
you  want  to." 

"He  is  dead!"  she  shrieked.  "You  have  had  news 
of  him?" 

"Not  one  word.  Oh  no,  he  is  not  dead;  he  was  not 
badly  injured,  I  think." 

"In  a  week,  you  say?" 

"Yes,  you  can  go  then.  But  I  think  you  will  not 
wish  to." 

"Why  not?"     She  spoke,  sullenly. 

"Well,  you  will  have  much  to  do  here  in  France.  I 
came  into  twenty  millions  of  francs  to-day.  I  have 
just  left  those  lawyers.  I  have  settled  upon  you  ten 
millions  of  francs,  and  also  one-half  of  the  estates  in 
Languedoc.  There  will  be  much  for  you  to  see  to 
shortly."  She  moved  towards  the  door. 

252 


TWENTY  MILLIONS  OF  FRANCS 

The  bigger  woman  followed  her.  "You  are  jest- 
ing," she  panted,  while  her  pale  eyes  turned  yellow  in 
the  dimness  of  the  court-lighted  room.  "You  are 
mocking  my  poverty  with  your  great,  sudden  wealth. 
You  feel  yourself  so  secure,  so  fine  with  your  millions. 
You  think  that  with  them  to  back  you,  you  can  keep 
me  forever  apart  from  Sidney  Conningsby,  but  you 
can't  do  it.  I'll  work  my  passage  over  on  my  knees 
scrubbing  decks,  but  I'll  get  to  him." 

Judith  sighed  as  she  took  some  papers  from  her 
satchel  and  handed  them  to  Beatrice.  "Just  read 
these,"  she  ejaculated;  then  she  crossed  to  her  own 
room,  and  took  off  her  things,  and  sat  there  by  the 
tiny,  smoky  fire. 

While  Beatrice  Bond  read  the  wordy  legal  docu- 
ments, Judith  was  thinking  of  Bob  Travers. 


XX 

"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

A?TER  Beatrice  had  read  and  reread  the  law- 
papers  she  went  to  Judith.  In  a  dazed  fashion 
she  stood  before  her,  twisting  her  fingers  together, 
and  evidently  trying  to  adjust  and  comprehend  what 
had  befallen  her.  The  idea  of  refusing  the  money 
never  occurred  to  her.  Judith  had  been  sure  it  would 
not,  and  as  long  as  such  a  contingency  did  not  arise 
she  had  now  nothing  to  fear.  Ten  millions  of  francs 
constitute  an  appeal  both  to  the  average  imagination 
and  the  average  nature  somewhat  difficult  to  with- 
stand. Beatrice  Bond,  with  all  her  insane  passion  for 
Conningsby,  stood  there  near  Conningsby's  wife,  con- 
fronted with  what  may  be  termed  an  antidote.  A 
stronger,  a  nobler  woman  would  have  spurned  the 
money,  and  gone  breakneck  back  to  the  man.  This 
woman,  with  this  money,  found  the  man  dwindling, 
and  other  things  magnifying  themselves.  She  could 
not  be  blamed.  She  loved  luxury,  splendor,  gaudy  and 
tinselled  shows,  fine  clothes,  rich  food.  She  had  never 
had  them.  The  one  possession  of  vanity  she  owned  was 
the  ring  bought  with  Judith's  money,  and  given  to  her 
by  Judith's  husband.  She  had  famished  all  her  life  for 
warmth,  handsome  surroundings,  and  comfort.  Sud- 
denly the  means  to  these  lay  in  her  grasp,  and  simul- 

254 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

taneously  a  dulness  came  over  her  memories  of  Con- 
ningsby's  handsome  face.  Strangely  enough,  now  that 
she  thought  of  him,  she  saw  for  the  first  time  the  ex- 
treme shabbiness  of  his  clothes,  the  dust  on  his  collar, 
and  the  worn  finger-ends  of  his  gloves.  At  the  recol- 
lection of  these  she  shuddered,  and  turned  from  his 
image  to  the  vast  halls  of  ease  and  brilliancy,  whose 
doors  she  beheld  opening  wide  for  her  to  enter. 
So  true  it  is  that  the  love  of  certain  women  is 
not  absolutely  enduring,  however  violent  in  its 
prime. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,"  she  began, 
awkwardly. 

"There's  nothing  to  say,"  observed  Judith. 

"Oh,  but  there  is.'' 

"No,  only  this:  If  you  don't  mind,  I  will  leave  you 
here  with  my  mother  for  a  few  days.  I  want  to  take 
a  little  run  off  to  the  country.  When  I  get  back,  these 
lawyers  will  have  everything  fixed  up  completely. 
Meantime,  my  mother,  who  knows  all  about  the  es- 
tates—  far  more  than  I  do  — will  explain  to  you,  and 
tell  you,  and  also  show  you  about  Paris  and  your  shop- 
ping. You  can  run  up  your  bills,  you  know.  Then 
write  your  aunt.  Do  not  forget  her;  she  may  have 
worried  about  you." 

Beatrice  recalled  that  she  had  told  her  aunt  she  was 
going  for  a  week's  visit  to  an  artist  friend  in  Hart- 
ford. She  was  silent.  How  far  away  that  afternoon 
seemed  when  she  had  left  the  Ninety-sixth  Street 
house  with  Conningsby  in  the  hansom  with  the  ill-fed 
horse  and  half-tipsy  cabman!  How  sordid,  bleak,  bare, 
all  that  time  looked  to  her  now  by  virtue  of  these  mill- 
ions! But  Sidney  ?  Ah,  yes,  the  flame  burst  out  again, 

255 


THE  UNDEFILED 

and  she  mentally  reviled  herself  for  her  temporary  in- 
fidelity. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  will  write  to  Aunt  Mary.  I 
will  stop  here,  of  course,  until  you  return.  I  will 
learn  all  about  things  from  your  mother.  Then  I  will 
go  back  to  him." 

Judith  regarded  her  in  silence. 

"You  didn't  think  you  were  buying  me  off  with 
this" — she  shook  the  papers  angrily  now  in  the  other 
girl's  face — "did  you?" 

"No,"  Judith  answered.  "I  think  I  told  you  a 
divorce  could  and  should  be  arranged,  and  then  you 
and  Mr.  Conningsby  can  be  married." 

Beatrice  breathed  hard.  She  did  not  understand 
such  things  as  magnanimity  or  the  compassion  of  one 
woman  for  another,  or  the  desire  of  one  woman  to 
hold  another  in  the  paths  of  outward  peace  and 
chastity.  Judith  left  her  there,  and  went  to  see  her 
mother.  She  remained  with  Mrs.  Harriman  some- 
thing over  a  half -hour,  came  away  to  her  own  room, 
which  Beatrice  had  vacated,  packed  her  portmanteau, 
ordered  a  cab,  and  left  the  H6tel  Saint-Antoine,  and 
presently  Paris,  behind  her.  As  she  was  stepping  into 
a  first-class  carriage  at  the  Gare  du  Nord — be  it  un- 
derstood she  rode  first  class  for  the  first  time  now  in 
her  life — the  Duke  de  Montresor  was  just  tapping  at 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Harriman's  tiny  parlor. 

"But  come  in,  then!"  cried  the  matron  in  a  tone 
which  his  Grace  had  not  heard  in  several  years.  It 
reminded  him,  singularly  enough,  and  poignantly,  of 
a  time  when  this  woman,  her  young  daughter,  and  he 
had  schemed  one  of  the  most  daring  plots  ever  con- 
ceived for  winning  a  great  fortune,  and  he  opened  the 

256 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

door  in  a  kind  of  unconscious  expectancy.  Mrs.  Harri- 
man  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  little  room,  her  cheeks 
ablaze,  her  eyes  kindling,  her  whole  person  suffused 
with  an  unquestionable  joy. 

"Shut  the  door,"  she  commanded.  He  obeyed. 
"It  is  not  the  poor,"  she  said,  growing  tall  on  her 
heels,  and  uplifting  her  really  handsome  head. 

"Ah,  by  blue!  Then  who  is  it?"  he  asked,  palpi- 
tating, he  knew  not  why. 

"It  is — I!  I!"  cried  the  mother.  "I  for  nearly 
one-half,  for  six  millions  of  francs,  see!  Here  are  the 
proofs.  In  less  than  seven  days,  my  dear  Gaston,  I 
shall  be  rich,  rich  at  last!"  She  fell  on  her  knees  be- 
fore a  religious  picture  which  the  silver  and  gold- 
haired  landlady  had  hung  there  as  an  ornament,  and 
wept  for  happiness  and  gratitude,  though  to  whom  she 
was  grateful  it  would  indeed  be  most  difficult  to  de- 
termine. 

"  Madame  f"  His  Grace  flew  over  to  assist  her  when 
she  should  be  ready  to  rise  from  her  opportune  devo- 
tions. 

"Look  at  this,  and  this."  She  handed  him  the 
documents  which  Judith  had  given  to  her. 

His  Grace  of  Montre"sor  read  with  a  curious  avidity. 
He  could  do  two  things  at  once,  for,  while  he  read  and 
took  in  the  full  value  of  the  legal  instruments,  he  also 
jumped  to  some  logical  conclusions,  and  with  his  first 
use  of  his  upraised  eyes  started  his  new  campaign. 
Indeed,  a  lady  with  six  millions  was  never  too  old. 

"  Madame  " — he  lifted  the  plump  hand  of  his  hostess 
to  his  lips,  and  pressed  upon  it  a  kiss  just  a  little  more 
tender  than  convention  had  heretofore  demanded — "  I 
congratulate  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

257 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Also,  Mrs.  Harriman  was  in  no  wise  less  clever  than 
her  guest.  Within  the  second  she  felt  upon  her  brow 
a  handsome  diadem,  and  heard  some  one  calling  her 
"Duchess." 

They  sat  down  together,  and  talked  with  much 
amiability  and  animation,  but  no  point.  Each  was 
sufficiently  mundane  to  skate  gracefully  over  the  beau- 
tiful ice  which  lay  stretched  under  their  feet.  As 
platitudes  waned,  the  Duke  said:  "But  my  dear  ma- 
dame,  thos'e  other  fourteen  millions  of  francs,  eh  ?  The 
Church,  perhaps?" 

"I  think  not.  I  think  not.  She  retains  four  mill- 
ions, she  says,  for  a  while  only.  She  is  as  fixed  as  she 
was  in  the  old  days  not  to  keep  a  sou  of  it  for  herself. 
She  is  a  fool,  of  course;  but  what  will  you —  ?  her  father 
was  also  a  fool  for  honesty  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Ah,  yes."  His  Grace  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"And  the  other  ten?"  He  arranged  the  meagre  fire 
with  elaborate  care. 

"She  has  given  them  to  a  friend,  she  said;  one  who 
will  come  to  me  for  information  to-day.  I  don't  know 
who.  She  herself  has  gone  out  of  the  city.  She  did 
not  say  where.  She  will  return  in  a  few  days." 

Then  Beatrice  Bond  rapped  at  the  door.  She  came 
in,  and  presently  told  them.  They  told  her,  and  the 
afternoon  was  agreeably  spent.  The  Duke  dined 
with  them  at  the  weird  little  table  d'hdte,  and  afforded 
thereby  unlimited  delight  to  all  the  boarders;  also  to 
the  former  first  dancer  at  the  opera,  and  no  lesser  joy 
to  Beatrice  Bond.  Every  time  she  heard  the  words 
"your  Grace"  or  "the  Duke"  uttered,  she  became 
more  genuinely  pleased  with  her  position.  As  this 
really  well-bred  nobleman  handed  her  the  viands, 

258 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

served  her  with  olives,  or  the  minute,  stale  cakes,  the 
horrible  pink  bonbons,  bent  upon  her  his  handsome, 
heavy -lidded  eyes,  drank  pretty  sub  rosa  toasts  to 
her,  picked  out  for  her  the  large  figs  at  dessert,  dropped 
the  lump  of  sugar  in  her  coffee,  refused  sweetening  for 
his  own,  whispering,  "Mademoiselle  was  regarded  in 
the  cup,"  she  became  infatuated  with  that  which,  it 
is  allowed,  is  charming  to  most  of  her  sex,  especially 
to  any  member  of  it  unaccustomed  to  such  bewilder- 
ing and  diplomatic,  if  sudden,  doses. 

Besides,  had  not  the  excellent  landlady  been  up  to 
see  if  the  fire  of  Madame  Harriman  did  not  need  re- 
plenishing a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  had 
she  not  heard  the  glorious  news  of  all  these  millions  of 
francs  now  honoring  her  humble  and  unworthy  abode  ? 
Had  she  not  flown  and  rehearsed  the  same  to  the 
mock  countess  on  the  first  floor,  the  American  singing 
young  ladies  on  the  fourth,  the  scenic  artist  of  the 
same,  the  hairdresser  and  his  wife  of  the  third,  the 
newspaper  poet  of  the  fifth,  and  so  on,  even  to  the 
chef,  the  scullion,  the  waiters,  and  the  maids?  To  be 
sure.  Certainly.  Therefore,  when  Beatrice,  looking 
radiant  in  a  blue-spotted  gown  which  Judith  had 
bought  for  her,  with  a  string  of  pearls  round  her 
throat,  and  the  flower  stuck  in  her  bosom  stolen  by 
his  Grace  from  the  centre  vase  of  the  dinner-table, 
rose  from  her  chair  to  be  handed  gallantly  from  the 
room  by  his  Grace,  it  is  not  surprising  that  she  heard 
the  words: 

"The  great  heiress,  but  she  is  a  beautiful  blonde, 
and  his  Grace?  Ah,  what  will  you!"  spoken  in  very 
bad  English  by  the  landlady,  from  her  post  at  the 
small  carving-table  in  the  corner.  Of  course,  the 

259 


THE  UNDEFILED 

landlady  meant  her  splendid  guest  to  hear  these 
words.  Ah,  a  great  fortune  is  such  a  factor  for  many 
things.  And  as  Beatrice  Bond  listened  she  exulted, 
she  was  proud,  she  absolutely  for  a  few  moments  for- 
got Sidney  Conningsby,  and  only  recollected  that  she 
had  "money  to  burn,"  as  she  would  have  expressed  it, 
and  that  a  titled  man  was  standing  at  attention  while 
she  swept  by,  while  a  crowd  of  people  looked  on, 
while  a  jingling  piano-organ  played  opera  tunes  on 
the  pavement,  while  Mrs.  Harriman,  also  worth  mill- 
ions, was  her  chaperon,  while  her  cheeks  burned. 
Then  one  dull  flash  came  to  her  through  this  riot  of 
deliciousness.  She  actually  did  feel  a  sort  of  grati- 
tude to  Conningsby's  wife  for  having  saved  her  from — 
what?  The  dingy  week  she  might  have  spent  at  the 
little  Inn  in  Westchester  with  Judith's  husband?  If 
Judith  could  but  have  known  of  that  flash  of  re- 
luctant, cheap  thankfulness,  she  would  have  felt  her- 
self repaid  for  the  sacrifice  of  coming,  claiming,  ac- 
cepting, and  holding,  even  for  the  necessary  days,  that 
against  which  her  whole  soul  revolted. 

When  Judith  reached  the  little  village  which  was 
her  destination,  and  the  diligence  had  scrambled  up  to 
the  entrance  of  the  small  and  unfrequented  Inn,  hav- 
ing for  its  only  passengers  herself  and  a  thin,  ascetic 
old  priest  from  the  great  railway  town  twenty  miles 
away,  her  memory  was  busy  with  the  long-gone  day 
when  she  had  first  come  that  way.  She  recalled  the 
brook,  the  stone  bridge  at  which  she  had  nearly  lost 
her  life,  the  strong  arms  that  had  saved  her.  Yes, 
she  would  go  to  the  bridge  to-morrow.  She  did,  and 
sat  on  the  coping,  and  looked  down  at  the  laugh  and 
bubble  of  the  waters  playing  in  the  sunshine.  There 

260 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

was  a  lure  in  the  dimple  and  deepness  and  mystery  of 
the  pool.  How  easy  it  might  be  to  climb  down  the 
bank,  and  with  one  plunge  end  it  all!  How  sweet  it 
must  be  to  fall  asleep,  however  rude  the  cradle,  and 
never  to  waken!  One  might  as  well.  The  tale  was 
all  told,  there  was  no  more  to  it.  She  had  done  what 
she  could.  Where  the  use  of  prolonging  the  mere  act 
of  breathing?  She  got  up  and  started  down,  then 
she  paused.  What  made  her  ? 

The  recollection  of  the  promise  to  her  husband  that 
she  would  revise  his  book  for  him.  A  little  thing  to 
hold  one  to  life,  but  it  is,  after  all  said  and  done, 
oftenest  these  little  things  that  rule.  She  had  put  the 
manuscript  in  her  steamer  trunk  when  she  so  hastily 
quitted  New  York.  She  had  meant  to  do  it  for  him; 
she  had  it  in  her  portmanteau  with  her  now.  She 
laughed  at  the  curious  irony  of  its  being  Conningsby's 
book  that  should  alter  her  plans  not  only  for  the 
next  world,  but  even  for  this.  She  returned  to  the 
Vache  d'Or,  wrote  a  note  to  her  mother  stating  that 
she  found  she  could  not  get  back  to  Paris  under  a 
week,  and  then  she  took  out  the  manuscript  of  poor 
Conningsby's  great  Colon  novel,  and  sat  down  to  it  with 
a  quiet  earnestness  which,  considering  all  things,  was 
remarkable.  For  four  days  she  worked  unceasingly, 
and  the  morning  of  the  fifth  found  her  still  busy  be- 
fore the  little  deal  table  at  the  western  window. 
She  had  chosen  the  western  window  because  far  off 
in  the  land  to  the  west  lay  New  York,  and  in  New 
York  Bob  Travers  was.  She  was  writing  when  shouts 
and  huzzas,  and  the  strains  of  music  came  to  her  ears 
from  the  other  end  of  the  village.  As  the  sounds  came 
nearer,  Judith  laid  down  the  pen,  her  head  was  raised, 

261 


THE  UNDEFILED 

her  beautiful,  strange  eyes  shone,  and  the  exquisite 
lids  kept  a  weird,  twinkling  time  in  their  opening 
and  closing  to  the  throb  of  the  marching-tune.  It 
was  a  festival-day  of  some  kind,  and  all  her  blood  re- 
sponded to  the  thrill  of  the  music.  She  caught  up  a 
hat  and  wrap,  went  out,  and  hired  a  green  caleche 
with  a  fast  horse  and  a  reckless  little  lad  driver. 
She  said  to  him:  "Keep  close  to  the  music,  and  when 
it  stops,  and  they  go  into  the  church,  take  me  to  the 
sea,  down  the  road  of  Sal  d'Avray." 

He  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  all  the  while  the 
music  played  she  thought  of  the  power  and  tempta- 
tion and  lure  of  money,  and  that  this  great  power  of 
money  was  hers.  She  owned  it.  A  fortune  was  still 
in  her  possession.  Houses,  lands.  What  lands!  All 
these  leagues  stretching  out  as  far  as  she  could 
see,  with  their  wealth  of  factories  for  silk  and  cheese 
and  gloves;  their  hamlets,  houses,  rentals,  chateaux, 
horses,  lackeys,  farms,  flocks,  automobiles,  the  fleet 
of  smacks  yonder  riding  on  the  waves,  all  were  hers! 
What  a  thing  it  would  be  to  use  and  enter  into  such 
an  inheritance!  The  lilt  of  the  music  was  still  sound- 
ing in  her  ears,  all  her  young,  healthy  pulses  vibrated 
to  its  sensuous  call.  Should  she  indeed,  after  all, 
walk  into  her  own  and  find  out  if  the  powers  of  gold 
could  assuage  and  hush  and  satisfy  the  hunger  of  the 
heart  ? 

The  band  went  farther  away,  the  sunshine  was 
hidden  by  a  troop  of  clouds,  the  sea  turned  leaden  in 
her  sight,  and  the  throb  of  her  heart  was  stilled.  She 
said  to  the  lad  of  the  green  caleche:  "Turn  back,  and 
take  me  to  the  Vache  d'Or."  He  did  so,  and  she  went 
in,  and  fell  to  work  again  on  Sidney  Conningsby's  book. 

262 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE   GREEN" 

At  the  end  of  eight  days  she  had  finished  the  re- 
vision. She  wrote  a  couple  of  letters,  mailed  them, 
together  with  some  legal  papers,  in  each  of  the  en- 
velopes, also  mailed  the  manucript  to  her  husband  at 
the  Ninety-sixth  Street  house,  and  then  she  walked  out 
to  the  edge  of  the  village,  and  overlooked  her  estates 
once  more,  came  back,  paid  her  bill,  packed  her  port- 
manteau, got  into  the  diligence,  and  so  returned  to 
Paris. 

She  ordered  the  cabman,  naturally,  to  take  her  to 
the  Hotel  Saint- Antoine,  but  on  arriving,  the  parti- 
haired  landlady  herself  came  to  the  curb  to  inform 
her  that  "these  ladies,  madame  the  mother  and 
mademoiselle  the  friend,  the  great  heiress,  had  im- 
mediately, twenty-four  hours  after  the  departure  of 
Mademoiselle  Judith,  quitted  the  Hotel  Saint- Antoine, 
and  gone  to  the  Continental.  Assuredly.  What  was 
to  be  expected?  Was  it  not  the  right  of  persons  of 
distinction  and  fortune  to  choose  rather  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli  than  the  Rue  de  la  Sainte-Vierge  ?  Of  course. 
And  these  eminent  ladies  had  bestowed  upon  her  also 
a  substantial  sum,  and  all — look  you! — all  their  ward- 
robes, toilettes  of  silk  and  muslin,  lingerie,  shoes,  hats, 
hosiery,  parasols,  gloves,  shawls,  a  little  soiled,  frayed. 
What  will  you?  Naphtha  was  cheap,  and  the  needle 
easy  to  employ." 

"That  is  indeed  true,  madame.  Well,  call  Pierre 
to  take  up  my  luggage,  please,  if  my  room  is  still  dis- 
engaged." 

"But  certainly!  And  is  it  possible,  then,  that  mad- 
emoiselle will  continue  to  honor  the  Saint- Antoine,  and 
not  join  her  gracious  mamma  at  the  splendid  house 
in  the  Rue  d.e  Rivoli?" 

263 


THE  UNDEFILED 

It  was  possible.  Pierre  took  her  portmanteau  and 
smaller  traps.  She  said  to  the  cabman,  "Drive  me 
now  to  the  Continental,"  and  to  the  ex-dancer  of  the 
opera  she  said,  "I  will  be  back  in  an  hour  or  less. 
Will  you  not  make  me  some  of  your  coffee,  and  buy 
me  some  little  cakes?  You  know  the  kind  I  like." 
She  smiled  her  adorable  smile,  which  pleased  women 
and  men  alike,  and  was  whirled  away  to  the  great 
hotel.  She  was  shown  up  unannounced.  Surely,  it 
might  be  so  with  one's  mother.  Outside  the  door  she 
could  hear  the  sounds  of  a  revellous  laughter,  the 
jingle  of  plate  and  crystal,  the  flutelike  piping  of  a 
musical  box,  the  distracting  warble  of  canary  birds. 
There  was  hilarity  on  the  other  side  of  this  portal 
beyond  a  doubt.  Hark!  Now  the  crack  of  a  cham- 
pagne-cork, the  rattle  of  ice.  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure, 
people  dined  about  this  hour  of  the  evening.  The 
lackey  knocked ;  but  the  noise  within  was  too  boister- 
ous, the  absorption  too  great,  no  one  replied.  He  looked 
at  the  visitor. 

"You  need  not  knock  again,  I  will  go  in.  Madame 
is  my  mother." 

The  lackey  bowed,  and  went  away.  She  paused 
an  instant,  she  glanced  around  at  the  luxurious  and 
magnificent  surroundings,  and  instantly  compared 
them  with  the  Hotel  Saint-Antoine.  She  liked  all  this 
pomp  of  ease,  riches,  beauty,  warmth  quite  as  much 
as  the  girl  on  the  other  side  of  the  double  door.  More- 
over, she  belonged  to  such  an  atmosphere.  It  was 
hers  by  right  of  nature  and  heritage,  whereas  it  was 
the  other  woman's  merely  by  usurpation.  Then  she 
opened  the  door,  pushed  aside  the  heavy  damask 
portiere,  and  stood  looking  at  them. 

264 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

Mrs.  Harriman  sat  at  one  end  of  the  glittering  table, 
Beatrice  Bond  at  the  other.  Each  was  superbly  gowned 
in  the  creation  of  some  famous  dressmaker.  The  Duke 
de  Montre"sor  was  the  third.  Judith  observed  that  he 
had  a  gardenia  at  his  button-hole,  and  that  a  cluster  of 
the  same  flowers  was  pinned  on  Beatrice's  rose  chiffon 
corsage  with  a  brooch  of  diamonds.  Hey!  but  money 
could  trot  fast,  almost  a  mile  a  second. 

"Judith!"  cried  the  mother,  a  little  nonplussed,  a 
little  flushed. 

"But — Madame  Conningsby!"  exclaimed  his  Grace, 
remembering  that  she  was  married,  just  in  time. 

"You!"  said  Beatrice  Bond,  turning  paler. 

"Why,  yes,  it  is  I.     Why  not?" 

They  all  rose,  and  made  place  for  her,  assisted  by 
the  waiter,  who  then  was  dismissed  by  Mrs.  Harriman. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  a  sofa  by  the 
fireplace.  "I  told  them  at  the  Saint- Antoine  I  would 
be  back  for  supper." 

"The  Saint- Antoine!"  His  Grace  laughed  in  a  de- 
risive way.  "Not  really?"  added  the  mother.  "You 
will  surely  stop  here — with — us." 

It  was  an  odd  situation.  Each  one  felt  its  awk- 
wardness. Judith  did  not  answer  in  kind,  she  did 
not  care  to  reduce  the  position  to  words.  She  had 
used  her  eyes  when  first  the  tableau  had  presented 
itself  to  her.  She  had  seen  the  Duke's  hand  surrepti- 
tiously laid  over  the  hand  of  Beatrice  Bond.  She  had 
beheld  the  glance  exchanged  between  his  bold,  spark- 
ling eyes  and  the  pale  eyes  of  the  American  girl.  She 
had  noted  the  keen  exultation  of  each,  the  triumphant 
note  at  last  struck  in  the  career  of  both  man  and 
woman.  The  chaperon  did  not  count,  save  that  in 

265 


THE  UNDEFILED 

this  instance  she  was  well  within  the  picture,  and  had 
found,  it  was  safe  to  say,  already  more  companion- 
ship and  pleasure  in  the  nine  days  of  Beatrice  Bond's 
society  than  she  had  ever  experienced  with  her  own 
child  in  all  her  life.  That  she  had  just  missed  be- 
coming a  duchess  did  not  irritate  her;  she  had  known 
his  Grace  for  six  years,  and  would  have  pronounced 
him  difficult  as  a  husband.  There  was  a  faint  pause 
after  Mrs.  Harriman's  invitation  or  suggestion.  His 
Grace  rose,  and  broke  it. 

"Madame!"  he  exclaimed,  addressing  Judith,  "it  is 
to  me  a  great  pleasure  to  announce  to  you  that  Mad- 
emoiselle Bond  has  consented  to  become  the  bride  of 
the  unworthy  Montre"sor." 

They  were,  three  of  them  at  least,  persons  of 
breeding.  Beatrice  was  hardly  that,  but  she  knew 
some  things,  yet  not  this  particular  thing;  it  was  hard 
for  her.  Neither  the  Duke  nor  Mrs.  Harriman  knew 
of  her  affair  with  Conningsby.  Judith  did  know  it. 
Beatrice  rushed  over  to  Conningsby's  wife,  put  out 
her  arms,  and  bent  to  kiss  her,  saying: 

"Judith,  won't  you  congratulate  me?" 

"Us,  madame,  us!"  put  in  his  Grace,  with  admirable 
gallantry. 

Judith  withdrew  from  both  the  arms  and  the  kiss. 
She  stood  up,  a  very  graceful,  exquisite,  fine  creature, 
her  splendid  eyes  tranquil  and  yet  brilliant  beneath 
their  black  and  arching  brows.  Her  own  mother 
stared  at  her,  and  actually  thought  that  she  was  the 
handsomest  girl  she  had  ever  looked  at.  The  Duke 
de  Montre'sor  stared  at  her.  In  his  fashion  he  loved 
her  as  much  as  he  ever  had.  Beatrice  Bond  stared  at 
her  uncomprehendingly  but  uncompromisingly.  She 

266 


"BEATRICE  SWEEPS  THE  GREEN" 

hated  Conningsby's  wife  as  she  had  never  before  hated 
her.  She  was  dull,  but  she  felt  the  beauty  and  the 
strength  of  this  woman.  She  felt  intuitively  that 
the  Duke  still  loved  her.  She  even  caught  a  hint  of 
the  absurd  mother's  admiration.  Judith  walked  to 
the  door,  held  back  the  portiere,  said,  "Good-night," 
and  went  away  from  the  splendid  Hotel  Continental 
in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  to  the  small  room  at  the  fixed 
price  on  the  third  floor  of  the  Hdtel  Saint-Antoine. 

While  she  drank  her  coffee  and  ate  the  little  cakes 
the  landlady  had  bought  for  her,  sitting  by  the  handful 
of  fire,  and  inhaling  considerable  smoke  as  it  blew  down 
the  chimney,  Judith  thought  to  herself  how  cleanly 
Beatrice  Bond  had  swept  the  green — her  husband, 
her  adorer  the  Duke,  her  mother,  her  fortune,  or  one- 
half  of  it,  at  least — and  oh !  how  glad  she  was  that  it 
was  so!  How  amply  she  was  repaid  as  she  remem- 
bered the  week  that  Beatrice  had  not  spent  at  the 
little  Inn  in  Westchester! 

18 


XXI 

AT     LAST 

CONNINGSBY  had  lingered  along,  evidently  to 
the  surprise  of  the  half-dozen  medical  men  who 
consulted  together  daily  regarding  him.  The  nurses 
held  sway  in  the  house  in  the  Bronx,  and  the  master 
of  it  seldom  came  there.  Bob  Travers's  state  of  mind 
during  those  weeks  of  unmitigated,  torturing  anxiety 
was  one  of  indescribable  torment.  But  he  lived  through 
it,  to  outward  observance  a  quiet,  even  a  dull  sort  of 
man,  unless  one  could  have  been  alone  with  him  in 
his  room,  when  he  would  hold  the  turquoise  ring  to 
his  lips,  and  conjure  up  images  of  bliss  that  would 
have  beggared  Conningsby's  best;  wherein  he  held 
the  Orient-eyed  girl  who  owned  the  ring  close  to  his 
heart  and  soul.  Buck  Grant  had  come  often  to  see 
Conningsby.  He  had  also  been  to  the  Ninety-sixth 
Street  house,  where  he  now  had  finally  learned  that 
Beatrice's  aunt  had  heard  from  her  niece,  who,  it 
seemed,  was  in  Europe,  and  about  to  marry  a  duke. 
Grant  listened  to  this  with  small  interest.  Also,  here, 
the  worthy  woman  said,  was  a  parcel  for  Mr.  Connings- 
by. It  had  just  come,  and  was  from  Europe,  too,  and 
prepaid.  Would  Mr.  Grant  take  it  to  Mr.  Conningsby  ? 
He  would.  He  did  that  very  day. 

He  was  admitted  to  the  sick  man's  room  without 
268 


AT  LAST 

hesitation,  although  they  told  him  that  he  was  weaker, 
and  more  querulous  and  exacting  than  ever,  and  al- 
ways calling  for  his  wife,  and  for  Judith.  Grant  had 
opened  the  parcel  before  he  came  there.  It  was  a 
precaution  against  exciting  the  patient.  He  had  seen ' 
what  it  contained,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  wise  for 
him  to  have  it.  Conningsby  talked  very  much  of  a 
new  book,  and  this  probably  was  the  one. 

"What  is  it?  Manuscript?"  eagerly  asked  the 
author.  "I  have  none  out.  No  damned  publisher 
has  a  copy  of  it — only  Judith ;  she  promised  to  revise 
it.  If  she  would,  I  know  it  would  be  accepted.  She 
promised." 

Buck  Grant  could  not  resist  asking,  "When?"  He 
had  spent  all  his  spare  time  searching  for  her,  and  his 
state  of  mind  was  not  far  from  that  of  his  friend  Travers. 
But  he  had  not  spoken  to  Bob,  save  to  ask  once  or 
twice  if  Conningsby's  wife  had  turned  up  yet. 

Conningsby  answered:  "I  forget  when." 

"Is  this  it?"  Buck  took  off  the  wrappings,  and 
held  up  the  heavy  manuscript  before  Sidney's  eyes. 
A  little  slip  of  paper  fell  from  between  the  leaves. 
Conningsby  seized  and  tried  to  read  it. 

"I  can't  see,"  he  pleaded.  "Read  it  to  me.  Is  it 
from  her?" 

Buck  Grant  read  this: 

"  A  promise  fulfilled. — JUDITH." 

"Ah!  you  see!  You  see!"  he  smiled,  and  tried  to 
turn  over.  Buck  helped  him  a  bit. 

Travers  came  that  day.  He  had  not  been  before  in 
a  long  time.  As  he  entered  the  room  Sidney  looked 

269 


THE  UNDEFILED 

up  at  him,  and  held  the  scrap  of  paper  out  towards 
him.  "You  see!"  he  cried.  "I  always  told  you 
Judith  was  true  as  steel.  Look.  She  has  revised  my 
book  for  me.  It  will  succeed  now;  it  must.  She  was 
twenty  times  cleverer  than  I.  I  wonder  if  I'll  live  to 
see  it  published.  I  wonder — "  He  fell  back. 

Bob's  eyes  rested  on  Judith's  handwriting,  and  his 
keen  eyes  saw  the  French  stamps  on  the  wrapping- 
paper  on  the  floor.  She  was  in  Europe.  He  knew 
that  now.  At  last  he  had  a  clew.  His  heart  beat  big 
in  his  strong  body.  He  would  get  away  from  here, 
and  sail  for  France  to  -  morrow.  A  ship  was  going ; 
yes.  God!  how  the  sun  shone  in  at  the  windows. 
He  had  not  noted  its  shining  before  in  days,  weeks. 
What  was  that  Conningsby  was  saying?  He  came 
back  with  a  quick  bound  to  his  bearings. 

"I  wonder — where — Judith — is?"  Conningsby  mut- 
tered painfully.  He  put  up  his  arms  as  if  to  greet 
some  one.  "Is — she — coming — is  she — com — "  His 
speech  faltered,  his  arms  dropped,  and  then  he  fell 
back  with  a  smile  on  his  beautiful,  weak  lips. 

The  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Neither 
knew  that  the  dead  man's  wife  was  the  love  of  his 
friend's  life.  Buck  had  never  told  Bob  the  name  of 
the  girl  of  his  heart.  Bob  had  never  told  Buck. 
Men  are  not  like  women  that  way.  Such  things  as 
names  don't  count  with  them.  They  called  the 
nurses,  and  telephoned  for  the  doctors,  and  went 
out  of  the  house  together  silently  down  to  Travers's 
office. 

They  sat  there  smoking  while  Bob  opened  his  mail. 

He  said  to  Grant:  "I  shall  sail  for  Europe  to- 
morrow." Then  he  caught  sight  of  her  writing  on 

270 


AT  LAST 

an  envelope.     He  opened  it.     The  deed  to  the  house 
in  the  Bronx  was  its  sole  contents. 

Buck  Grant  was  not  watching  him;  his  thoughts 
were  with  Judith. 

"I  say,  Bob."  He  leaned  over.  "Want  to  tell  you 
the  girl  I  love  was  Conningsby's  wife." 

"Oh."  Travers  spoke  gently,  with  a  great  tender- 
ness, although  he  could  not  control  a  peculiar  wonder 
as  he  recalled  Beatrice  Bond's  face.  Their  eyes  met. 

The  plainsman-priest  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,  no, 
she  wouldn't  look  at  me,  Bob,  never.  I'm  not  her 
kind.  You're  her  sort,  pard.  She's  divine,  you  see, 
and  very,  very  human,  and — shucks!"  He  got  up, 
took  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  bolted.  When  he 
reached  his  room  at  the  Gray  Fox  Inn  at  Fairfield 
that  night,  he  found  a  communication  from  lawyers  in 
Paris,  and  also  a  little  note  from  Judith,  telling  him  that 
some  millions  of  francs  were  placed  to  his  account,  and 
that  she  hoped  the  inheritance  might  assist  him  a  bit 
in  his  work. 

Thus  had  the  heiress  to  one  of  the  noblest  fortunes 
in  all  France  disposed  of  it  entirely,  except  three 
hundred  dollars  —  the  exact  amount  with  which  she 
had  started  out  on  her  mission  —  this  she  kept,  and 
sailed  for  New  York  on  the  day  before  Travers 
left  for  Havre.  Their  ships  crossed,  spoke  by  the 
wireless,  and  passed  on.  When  she  reached  New 
York  she  returned  to  the  boarding-house  she  had 
been  in  when  she  brought  Beatrice  from  the  Bronx. 
She  also  went  to  the  Goodhue  publishing  house,  and 
asked  for  the  position  which  circumstances  had  forced 
her  to  neglect.  It  was  open,  they  said  rather  grudg- 
ingly, and  they  gave  it  to  her. 

271 


THE  UNDEFILED 

She  adjusted  herself  to  the  existence  in  a  way.  She 
wondered  a  little  about  her  husband,  and  what  Bea- 
trice's complete  defection  might  mean  to  him.  Of 
Travers  she  thought  day  and  night,  every  waking 
hour,  and  every  moment  of  every  hour,  just  as  he 
thought  of  her — just  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  and 
woman  to  think  of  each  other,  and  yet  to  lead  lives 
of  an  outward  serenity,  and  an  outward  purpose  and 
accomplishment.  Now  and  again,  as  some  weeks 
slipped  by,  she  thought  she  would  go  and  see  the 
Faxons.  She  hungered  for  some  word  of  people  she 
knew.  No  one  sought  her  out.  No  one  was  cog- 
nizant of  her  whereabouts.  The  two  who  cared  the 
most  for  her — Bob  Travers  and  the  clergyman — had 
each  searched  for  her  unavailingly,  and  now  each 
man,  one  personally,  the  other  by  letter,  was  pursuing 
the  clew  he  had  in  Europe.  As  to  others,  the  run  of 
her  acquaintance  was  meagre,  and  even  the  Faxons 
had  long  since  given  up  hunting  for  her.  Dorothy 
wrote  to  Buck  Grant,  and  got  word  that  Mrs.  Con- 
ningsby  was  in  France;  there  things  ended.  She 
would  not,  could  not,  go  to  the  Ninety-sixth  Street 
house,  even  to  call  on  Beatrice's  aunt.  She  was  free 
of  Beatrice,  and  shrank  from  any  remote  touch  with 
her.  She  was  curious  about  her  husband,  just  a  little 
curious,  that  was  all.  But  not  even  at  the  publishing 
houses  with  which  the  Goodhues  were  in  contact  would 
she  make  the  least  inquiry. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  a  time  of  splendid  weather, 
cold,  still,  pungent,  she  was  free,  and  she  went  up  to 
the  Park,  to  the  shadowy,  unfrequented  place  where 
she  and  Travers  had  been  often  together.  She  found 
the  very  bench  upon  which  they  had  sat.  Squirrels 

272 


AT  LAST 

came  and  played  near  her,  sparrows  hopped  on  the 
leaf-covered  path.  The  sky  was  a  marvellous  blue, 
cloudless,  and  the  bite  of  the  wind  was  sharp  but 
sweet.  She  sat  down,  and  thought  of  the  bridge  and 
the  little  river  with  its  deep  pool  at  Sal  d'Avray,  and 
she  had  a  faint  wonder  as  to  why  she  had  not  ended 
it  all  over  there  six  weeks  ago.  She  was  alone  in  the 
big  world,  alone  utterly,  and  her  soul  cried  out  in  its 
agony  of  bitterness,  that  mute  cry  of  souls  which  yet 
is  more  terrible  than  all  the  audible  cries  and  shrieks 
ever  uttered. 

Then  he  came  along.  He  saw  her.  She  glanced  up 
instinctively.  There  was  a  great,  compelling,  winning 
strength  about  him. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  softly,  standing  before  her,  and 
hardly  breathing  lest  she  should  melt  from  his  sight. 
"  I  have  found  you  at  last." 

She  said  nothing.  Perhaps  this  was  to  be  bitterer 
than  to  be  alone,  for  either  he  had  found  out  her 
tacit  lying,  or  she  must  now  make  it  known  to  him. 

"May  I  sit  down  by  you?"  he  asked,  humbly,  as  a 
servitor  might  inquire  of  a  queen. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "you  must  go  away." 

"Never!"  The  whole  man  spoke  in  the  one  word — 
the  man,  the  master,  the  stronger  of  the  two — the  pos- 
sessor, the  owner — the  one  who  would  protect,  care, 
work,  endure  for,  shield,  worship  her  always.  He  sat 
down  close  to  her.  She  shrank  away  to  the  farthest 
edge  of  the  bench. 

"  I  have  just  got  back  from  the  other  side.  I  learned 
you  were  there  by  an  accident  only,  from  seeing  your 
handwriting  on  a  parcel  with  French  stamps  affixed." 

Then  she  knew  that  he  had  seen  the  manuscript  of 

273 


THE  UNDEFILED 

Conningsby's  book;  that  was  the  only  parcel  she  had 
sent.  She  knew  that  he  must  have  seen  Connings- 
by  in  a  certain  intimate  fashion  at  the  Ninety-sixth 
Street  house,  or  wherever  else  Conningsby  might  now 
be  living ;  knew  that,  of  course,  Travers  must  be  aware 
of  her  long  masquerading.  Still  she  was  silent. 

"Before  I  saw  that  parcel  I'had  searched  New  York 
like  a  sleuth.  I  had  gone  everywhere,  done  every- 
thing, asked  everybody;  no  one  knew.  It's  no  mat- 
ter now."  His  voice  was  inexpressibly  tender.  "We 
are  here  together;  that  is  all  that  matters."  As  she 
did  not  speak  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  He  was  glad 
to  be  in  the  wide  open  with  her  just  at  this  time,  no 
one  near  or  in  hearing,  under  the  sky,  with  the  slow 
winds  breathing  upon  them  around  the  little  hill,  the 
world  far  off,  unheeding,  unheeded. 

"What  had  I  done  to  my  girl  that  she  put  me  to 
such  a  torment  of  suspense  and  anxiety — ran  away 
from  me?" 

"You!     Nothing." 

"Listen,"  he  said,  taking  her  other  hand  in  both  of 
his,  bending  close  to  her.  "It  was  hell,  but  we're 
through  with  all  of  that.  You  left  me  just  as  we  were 
to  have  been  married.  Do  you  remember  that?" 

She  inclined  her  head  slowly. 

"  Here  is  the  deed  to  your  house."  He  took  it  from 
his  pocket  and  laid  it  in  her  lap.  "  I  have  carried  it 
ever  since  you  sent  it  back,  and  each  day  I  have 
thought:  Maybe  I  will  find  her  now.  I  have  been 
coming  up  here  for  a  week  past;  came  first  the  day 
after  I  arrived." 

She  freed  her  hands,  and  tendered  him  the  deed. 
He  shook  his  head. 

274 


AT  LAST 

"Oh  no,  it's  yours." 

"I  cannot  accept  it." 

"Yes,  you  can.  In  fact,  there  is  no  question  of 
acceptance;  it  is  yours,  I  am  yours."  His  eyes  de- 
manded the  glance  of  hers,  and  she  gave  it,  a  long 
look,  as  those  who  are  thirsty  gaze  at  each  other.  But 
her  soul  was  pierced  as  if  a  sharp  and  poisoned  spear 
had  been  thrust  into  it.  He  did  not  know.  She  would 
have  to  tell  him.  She  could  not.  She  would  get  up 
and  go  away,  lose  herself,  anything  but  to  incur  the 
surprised  reproach  of  the  eyes  that  were  dearer  to  her 
than  life  itself,  far  dearer.  And  she  had  no  right  to 
his  love,  his  care,  his  presence.  She  was  another  man's 
wife.  She  had  deceived  him,  not  by  words,  but  by 
silence.  She  suffered  with  a  hushed  intensity.  She 
got  up,  and  started  to  walk  away.  He  sprang  to  her, 
and  held  her  small  arm  as  in  a  vise. 

"No,"  he  said,  intuitively  feeling  that  flight  was  in 
her  mind.  "Ah,  no."  He  gently  led  her  back  to  the 
bench.  "You  do  not  leave  me  ever  again.  In  an 
hour's  time  we  will  be  married  in  a  church  I  know  of, 
a  quiet,  big  church  down-town — yes?" 

"No,  no,"  she  faltered.  "I  must  tell  you.  I  have 
meant  to  always,  but  I  was  not  brave  enough.  I — " 

"Hush!"  He  spoke  soothingly,  as  to  a  child,  but 
with  an  exquisite,  passionate  yearning,  and  he  would 
have  taken  her  into  his  arms  out  there  where  they 
were  alone,  but  that  something  in  those  Oriental  eyes 
of  hers  still  held  his  will  a  prisoner.  "Hush!  I  don't 
want  to  hear  anything.  I  told  you  once  I  was  not 
asking  about  your  past.  What  I  want  is  you,  your 
present  and  your  future."  His  voice,  low-pitched  as 
it  was,  grew  suddenly  savage,  uncontrollable  depths 

275 


THE  UNDEFILED 

sounded  in  it,  tremendous  primal  forces  that  would 
have  their  way.  His  arm  went  about  her,  drew  her 
to  him  fiercely.  "That's  what  I  want.  Give  it  to 
me,"  he  said,  imperiously. 

"Oh!"  she  whispered,  in  a  terrified  way,  striving  to 
get  free  of  him,  which  she  could  not  do.  "I  am  Con- 
ningsby's  wife." 

Travers  did  not  stir  a  hair's -breadth,  his  breath 
came  no  faster,  his  heart  beat  no  more  madly.  There 
was  not  the  shadow  of  change  in  the  expression  of  his 
face,  in  the  hunger  of  his  eyes  as  they  were  fastened 
upon  hers,  in  his  whole  attitude  of  inexorable,  insatia- 
ble, determined  demand;  there  was  neither  surprise 
nor  chagrin  nor  pain.  He  only  said,  hoarsely,  keep- 
ing her  close  to  him:  "Conningsby  has  been  dead  for 
three  weeks." 

He  saw  her  lips  quiver  and  the  pretty,  upturned  cor- 
ners fall.  He  sprang  up  now.  "  I  am  a  brute,  a  beast!" 
he  cried  out,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  before  her. 

She  sat  still  a  moment,  then  she  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
without  looking  at  him:  "Did  you  know?" 

"Know  what?"  He  stood  still  in  front  of  her,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"That  I  was  married?" 

"No." 

"I  always  meant  to  tell  you.     I  could  not." 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  It  is  the  past." 
He  regarded  her  now.  He  sat  down  again  on  the 
bench,  but  not  close  to  her.  "You  did  not  know  that 
he  was  dead?" 

"No,  no!" 

"Well?"  He  was  maddened  with  the  repression 
and  the  terror  of  what  she  might  say.  His  tone  was 

276 


AT  LAST 

harsh,  so  harsh  that  she  misinterpreted  it,  and  was 
frightened. 

She  breathed  pantingly  as  she  echoed  his  "Well," 
adding:  "Well,  what?" 

"  Oh!"  he  cried,  in  bitter  agony.  "  Do  you  care  that 
he  is  dead?  Was  he,  after  all,  something  to  you? 
Tell  me  quickly,  for  God's  sake!" 

"He  was  nothing  to  me,"  she  said,  and  he  did  not 
stir  towards  her,  nor  did  she  move,  but  their  eyes  met, 
and  they  sat  still  for  a  while,  so  still  that  a  squirrel 
travelled  up  his  sleeve  to  his  shoulder,  and  looked 
around  expectantly  into  his  face.  Then  Judith 
smiled  the  wonderful  smile  that  Travers  loved.  He 
took  her  hands  again,  and  this  time  he  pulled  the 
gloves  off  of  them.  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little 
gold  ring,  and  smiled,  too,  as  she  noted  the  turquoise 
circlet  still  at  his  fob. 

"You  see  this?"  he  asked,  showing  her  the  plain 
gold  one. 

"Yes." 

"  I  bought  it  to  be  married  to  you  with,  three  days 
after  I  first  met  you.  We  will  be  married  to-day, 
now,  right  away.  Come." 

"Oh  no,  no!  not  now!  not  so  soon!" 

"Why  not?"     He  spoke  seriously. 

"Because — "  she  hesitated. 

"Because  of  Conningsby?"  he  inquired. 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"Oh, "he  cried  out,  "he  is  dead.  I  will  not,  cannot, 
let  you  out  of  my  sight  again  unless  you  are  my  wife. 
I  only  ask  you  to  have  the  ceremony  performed  to-day ; 
then,  later  on,  when  you  will  deign  to  say  so,  I  will 
come  and  take  you — home." 

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THE  UNDEFILED 

Judith  sighed,  that  sigh  of  blessed,  rapturous  con- 
tent which  only  comes  from  the  lips  of  a  woman  who 
is  loved  and  who  loves,  as  it  was  with  this  woman. 

"My  girl,  mine,  it  is  to  be  yes,  eh  ?" 

"Yes." 


THE    END 


A     000  127  104     8 


